


Other Duties Just as Sacred

by kattahj



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Original Character(s), Pirates, potentially offensive language and themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-18 23:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 68,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2365835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattahj/pseuds/kattahj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would make a woman decide to leave her husband and child to go off with a pirate? And how would her life turn out once she had?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is, at the moment, compliant both with the backstory I wrote for Killian in "One Foot in Sea", and with canon, even though those two things are no longer compliant with each other. Since this story is a multichaptered WiP, it's bound to be jossed eventually, and I hope you don't mind when that happens.

A young man was sitting on the steps outside the tavern, with his legs stretched out well into the street. The only way for Milah to pass him with her pails of water would be to walk in the muddy tracks where carriages were passing by, with the risk of being hit by one at any moment. As she stopped and glared at him, he turned to look at her, an amused glint under raised, dark eyebrows.

There was a jewel in his ear and more adorning his hands, but his clothes were leather and his boots muddy: a warrior's attire. His skin, though naturally pale, had a tan that showed the hint of a scar on his cheek. Rich and dangerous – not a good combination to cross. But her back was too tired and her mood too sour for her to care.

”Get your legs out of the way,” she snapped.

The amusement turned into an outright smirk, and he replied, ”You could ask nicely, you know,” in a well-educated voice that named him a gentleman in breeding, if not in action.

The thought of begging this conceited pig for anything angered her even further.

” _You_ could try moving your precious arse before I kick your face in.”

”I'd love to see you try,” he laughed.

That laughter took the very last of her patience, and she put her pails down, aiming a kick at his handsome face, the consequences be damned.

Both his hands shot up to catch her foot, and he pushed her heel upwards and backwards, sending her flying to the ground. The pails knocked over and spilled water out into the muddy street, and Milah landed hard on her elbows, a jolt of pain shooting up through her body.

”Next time you mean to kick somebody,” he offered amiably, ”don't tell them in advance.”

She sat up, skirt squelching from the spilled water. ”Now look what you did!”

”What I did?” He crouched down before her and held out a hand. ”Protecting myself against assault, you mean?”

”Oh, yes, I suppose it's all a big joke to you.” She gathered her dripping skirt together and stood up, ignoring his offer of help.

”You're actually angry.” His eyebrows first rose, then lowered in sympathy, even more aggravating to her bruised pride.

”Of course I'm angry, you oaf, what did you expect?” The worst part was that despite it all, that infuriating grin of his was warming her up. He was just a _boy_ , for goodness' sake. It was humiliating for a woman of her years to go weak-kneed over some self-satisfied sapling, and she cursed under her breath to force away the feeling.

His smile died away, and he watched her in silence briefly before sticking his fingers in his mouth for a sharp whistle.

In response, a tall, rough-looking man stepped out of the tavern. Milah fell quiet mid-invective, taking in the shaved head, eyepatch, knobbly features and leathery skin.

The first man turned to the ruffian and said, ”The lady had a mishap and spilled her water. Fetch her some more and see her safely home.”

”Aye, Captain.”

Captain? Neither one of them was an army man, that much was clear, which left the sea, and Milah realized with a simultaneous lurch to the stomach and flutter to the heart that she knew exactly what they were. The absurdity of having a pirate the size of an oak tree carrying her water pails was just too much to take in, and she turned to the captain.

”Do you always have lackeys to do your chores?” she asked.

”Of course,” he said with an angelic expression. ”It leaves me free for more _pleasurable_ pastimes.”

The suggestion inherent in that remark was so transparent that she couldn't help a snort of laughter – one that she hurried to swallow when she saw the triumph on his face.

”All right, then,” she told the ruffian, ”the well is this way, and home is over there.”

He picked up the pails and started walking, without a word, and she followed, finding it easier to focus her gaze on him than on the captain. Still, she couldn't resist a final glance back, catching sight of that damned amused expression, which made her flinch and turn back.

Somehow, the massive presence looming next to her was less disconcerting, and she quite enjoyed the startled look on people's faces. Quite a change from their usual mien.

”So you're a pirate?” she asked as he filled the pails with water, having to almost double down over the well.

”Yuh.”

”Is it... exciting?” She sounded like a wistful little girl, but if he found it strange, he didn't show it.

”Sometimes.”

”Only sometimes?”

”Sometimes there's scrubbing decks,” he said and started walking again with the full pails. ”Or running errands for some pretty lady the captain wants to impress.”

His face was still so grim and stony that it took her a beat to realize that he was teasing her, and she smiled, both in response to the attempted humour and for the notion of herself as a lady to be impressed.

”Sorry about that,” she said. ”And thank you, for your chivalry. Your captain could learn a thing or two from you. You could tell him that, if you want.”

”Nah. I like my head where it is.”

She chortled at that, and by the time she came home, she was in quite a good mood. It instantly died away, though, when they met with her husband in the yard, and he shrank visibly at the sight of her huge companion. It was ungenerous of her, she knew – after all, the pirate _was_ quite frightening – but it brought back the reality of her own life, in this little cottage, shunned by the neighbours and forced into proximity with this mouse of a man.

”Milah?”Rumpelstiltskin asked in a quivering voice. ”Is everything all right?”

”Everything's fine,” she snapped at him. ”I got a bit of help back, that's all. No need to fear, little mouse.”

Thanking the pirate, she got her pails back and was mortified to see upon his face the same disdain that half the town showed them, though with an additional tinge of amusement. She stormed into the house and got a rag dipped into one of the pails, scrubbing at the floor as if her life depended on it.

It wasn't that she expected her husband to be as large and scary as _that_ bloke; the notion was clearly ridiculous. And she wasn't looking for him to be cocksure and flirtatious like the blue-eyed bastard back in town, not really, but...

Rumpelstiltskin came into the cottage and took care to avoid the wet patches on the floor. To avoid _her_ , in the bargain, giving her a shy sideways glance as he passed by.

That was the rub, wasn't it? Running from ogres was bad enough, but what could you do about a man who was afraid of his own wife?

The joke was on her, she supposed. When he first proposed, she had been so relieved to have a man who had neither the power nor inclination to hurt her. It never occurred to her to think that she would end up the ogre in her own marriage.

His expression now was so mournful, so pleading, that she had to turn her back even to cope with it. She was here, wasn't she? She was doing her chores, keeping her mouth shut, and if he expected her to do it with a smile on her face, he ought to think again.

Smaller feet tiptoed around the wet patch, and she looked up at Baelfire coming in from playing by the river. He'd left his muddy shoes by the door and was careful not to step where she was cleaning, but that was the only thing he was careful of. At least _he_ wasn't afraid of her, not yet anyway, but his eyes went from her face to his father's, gauging their temper, and Rumpelstiltskin hurried over to sit down beside him and give him a hug.

She bit her lip, reminding herself that if her child turned against her, it was her own fault, and she forced herself to smile.

“All right,” she said with as much cheer as she could muster. “I'll just get this done, and then I'll start on supper. We still have some of that sausage; it'll make a nice addition to the soup.”

“Thank you,” Rumpelstiltskin said quietly, hand still in Bae's hair.

There were times she suspected that he did it on purpose, than in absence of strength he had turned his own weakness into a weapon. In saner moments, she knew that it was most likely her own frustration warping his innocent reactions into acts of malicious forethought. Either way, it amounted to the same thing. She would get tired and lash out, he'd get hurt, so would Bae, and in the end she'd relent and do what she was supposed to do in the first place, feeling horribly guilty about her own behaviour. If only she could reconcile herself to her situation and stop making things worse for them all.

And if she could respect him. That was the worst of it, really, not the lack of love. It hadn't been so bad before the war. She had been something close to happy, back then, the young newlywed sharing marital gossip with her sister Alma in the bakery shop. Recalling those days, she could just about remember them, how people had still smiled at her and her husband in the street. They'd been a couple like any other, before he came back hobbled by his own blow, and her friends – widows all – would no longer meet her gaze. Sure, from time to time back then she'd had the occasional twinge in her heart, remembering what had driven her to her husband, and she'd had to lie still and quiet in the nights, not to push him out of the bed, but altogether, it had been easier to manage. Even with those twinges, she hadn't been so mean, so vicious and petty, that she could no longer recognize herself.

She had been a good person once, hadn't she? Or was it just self-flattery, the assumption of goodness based on nothing more than the lack of opportunity to be anything else? Maybe this shrew was her all along, deep inside. Gods knew she didn't have the strength to be different, not anymore.

She finished the cleaning and moved on to supper preparations, careful to keep something resembling a smile upon her face, feeling it get more cramped with every minute.

“Mama?”

Baelfire must have gone outside without her noticing, because now, with a shy smile, he offered her a freshly picked coltsfoot.

“I got you this,” he said. “It's the first one I've seen this year.”

She put the bowl and spoon down and gently took the flower from his hand, softening at the little yellow sun. “It's the first one I've seen too,” she said. “Well. It seems spring is coming after all.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked them away, giving her son a quick smile. “Thank you, Bae. Now, run off and play for a while, and I'll have supper ready soon.”

* * *

 

The next day was a Day of Ash, and she went to the temple, alone. Rumpelstiltskin had the sense to stay away, and she wouldn't subject Bae to more scorn than he already faced. She moved through the crowd, ignoring the glances and comments as best she could, but as she approached the altar, she felt the sharp push of an elbow at the small of her back and fell over, scattering her sticks of incense on the floor. People hurried past, feet so close that she had to spread out her hands to prevent her sticks from breaking – a few bruises were easier to take than a ruined offering, on a day like this.

As she gathered the incense and stood up, her eyes burned, but she told herself that she had as much right as the rest of them to be there. So what if her husband wasn't among the fallen? She had others to mourn, and she wouldn't let anyone tell her that she wasn't entitled.

Trying her best to hold her head high, she rattled off her quiet prayers in stubborn defiance, for her cousins, and Alma's husband, and Gerald. Towards the end of them, she added a plea most unsuitable for a Day of Ash, with a fervency that made her ashamed: “Please, please, make it stop!”

What a silly, inappropriate prayer! Selfish, at a time when she should have thought of others, and woefully unspecific. The gods might decide to teach her a lesson by twisting her words in whichever way they pleased. She blushed at her own folly and hurried off. The other templegoers seemed to think nothing of her apparent shame – why would they? They expected it.

On her way back, someone quite deliberately stepped into her path, and – in a most unexpected move – bowed to her. She was surprised to find that it was the pirate captain. Yet in some strange way, she had expected him.

“Why, if it isn't my favourite sharp-tongued shrew,” he said with a grin.

“Why, if it isn't my least favourite prancing peacock,” she snapped, wondering why her heart felt so much lighter.

“Pea cock?” he repeated, the pause evident between the two words. “I assure you, nothing of the kind!”

She had to bite her lip, not so much for the bad innuendo as for the fact that she'd practically fed it to him. “You think you're so funny.”

“So do you,” he said, his grin widening at her reaction, and she knew she had to do something to stop him being so pleased with himself.

A carriage came towards them, and she realized how very easy it would be to get her own back, and in the most fitting way possible, too. Using tricks of days long gone by, she tilted herself to accentuate her shapes through the fabric of her dress, though she made sure to keep her voice stern as she moved further into the road and addressed him: “That's a fine way to talk on a Day of Ash. And to a married woman, no less! Have you no shame?”

Just as she had anticipated, he moved along with her, to keep up with the view. “Shame is an emotion I have found to be of very little...”

The muddy spray from the carriage's wheels drenched his clothes and cut him short. His jaw dropped, and he shook himself like a dog, silent for the first time since she met him.

Even with her lower lip firmly between her teeth, she couldn't stop herself from smiling.

“You... you did that on purpose!” he said.

“I cannot make carriages appear at will,” she said, but unable to keep a straight face, she admitted, “A little bit, yes.”

He stared at her, dripping wet, elbows extended slightly from the body to prevent the water from soaking through, and very slowly, he exhaled through his teeth.

His expression made her take a step back, as she remembered that he was a pirate, after all. Young, pretty and sweet-talking, maybe, but a pirate nonetheless, and vivid memories came back to her of stories told in voices that lowered to a whisper at the most horrific details. If he decided to attack her, could she put up a fight? Could she call for help – and if she did, would anyone come?

Before she had time to decide on a plan of defence, his posture relaxed and he burst into laughter.

“Bloody hell, woman,” he said. “If you want me out of my clothes, all you have to do is ask.”

The thought of him out of his clothes came to her mind unbidden, and she blinked hard to force it away. “You should be so lucky.” But she still could not keep her smile back.

“A drink, then?” His wide grin and the twinkle in his eyes were back in full force. “Now that we've both made the other wet and dirty.”

The incessant onslaught of his remarks was so over the top that she couldn't even take them seriously, but the joy he took in saying them brought joy to her own heart as well. The strength of it took her breath and made her cheeks heat, unlike anything she'd felt since her time with Gerald.

That thought stopped her short, and she snapped, “It is a Day of Ash!”

“Is it?” he asked, still smiling. “And what is that?”

“It's for honouring our fallen.”

“Ah.” To his credit, he let his smile die off, though one couldn't say that he looked chagrined. “A worthy cause. And what of tomorrow? Is that too a Day of Ash?”

“No. I...” For a moment, she couldn't think of a single reason not to agree to his suggestion, which was ridiculous, since there were so many. “I can't just go off and have a drink with you!”

“Why not?”

“I don't even know your name!”

“True, that. How rude of me.” He gave a bow, arms spread wide, the effect somewhat ruined by the water still dripping from his sleeves and hair. “Captain Killian Jones of the Jolly Roger, at your service, milady. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“Milah. My name is Milah.”

“Milah.” He tasted the word, making it seem softer and gentler than she'd ever felt. “A beautiful name. I'm honoured to meet you, Milah.”

If anything proved what a fish out of water he was, it was that phrase. No one was _honoured_ to meet her. No one was even pleased to meet her, except maybe Bae on a good day.

What was she doing here? Having some pirate fill her head with nonsense, when she should be going home to her child, to her duties.

“If you're quite done,” she snapped, and moved to go past him.

“Hey, now!” He shifted to catch up with her, without going so far as to grab her or block her way. “What of my invitation? I did give you my name.”

“I can't. I have a child.”

He bit his lip and nodded solemnly. “How old?”

“Six... almost seven.”

“Old enough to spend an hour or two playing with his friends. He has friends, doesn't he?”

Milah wavered, because it was true. Bae wasn't like her and Rumpel, he made connections easily. There was that girl Morraine at the neighbours', her parents let him come over sometimes and play, even though they didn't stoop low enough to extend the invitation to his parents.

“Yes, but...”

“But?” Those damned blue eyes. What business did a pirate have looking so earnest?

“I have to work.”

“You are in someone's employ, then? What are your hours of leisure?”

“No. No, I'm not.”

There was a moment of silence, as Captain Jones offered no more counters to her excuses. Half of her wanted him to. No – more than half, much more.

“If you don't wish to go, you can just say so,” he said softly. “I have no desire to coerce you.”

She swallowed the tightness in her throat, finding it so hard to fight against this attention, this _kindness_. With a sharp bite of her cheek, she reminded herself that it was probably just blandishment intended to make her raise her skirts.

The thought, rather than stopping her cold, brought such indecent images to her mind that she quickly took two steps back.

“I'm a married woman!”

“Yes, you are.” There was something akin to pity in his expression as he said, “Took you a while to remember that, didn't it?”

Shame burned her face and behind her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said. “You seem like a lovely person.”

His mouth tilted up ever so slightly. “My crew and I are staying right there,” he said, pointing towards the inn, “for the duration of the week. In case you change your mind.”

She nodded and hurried off, trying to force herself back into that dull state of mind where nothing mattered and she could just carry on with her chores like an ox on the field.

Halfway down the street, though, she stopped and turned. Although it was a silly thing to say – he couldn't possibly understand why – she called back to him: “Thank you!”

A streak of mischief appeared on his face, but it died away again, and he simply replied, “You're welcome.”

* * *

 

That night, she took her husband to bed for the first time in months, and rode him with such fervour that she shocked them both. Her teeth were tightly clenched to prevent any name from slipping out, but her mind was filled with sparkling blue eyes and a bearded smile.

Once the act itself was finished, she sank back onto the mattress, and in response to Rumpelstiltskin's cautious, hopeful kisses she embraced him, caressing his skin and crying in silent apology over the cuckolding she'd subjected him to in her mind.

Sleeping was fretful, with banal but frightening dreams of running from an unseen threat, her feet getting stuck in quagmire, every step dragging her further into the ground. She woke with a start and pinched herself to stay awake, stepping out of bed at the first sign of daylight.

The household chores got done with a new urgency, and she scrubbed away at the dishes like her life depended on it. At times, she found herself speeding things up to a level that left a sloppy result, and in punishment she forced herself to do it over with twice the care.

Rumpelstiltskin tried talking to her, and she answered as best she could, tried to smile, but his presence served as a constant reminder of the day before, and she soon directed her attention back to the work which occupied her body and kept her from thinking.

As the day progressed, he stopped trying to engage her in conversation and went off to sell cloth and thread to the seamstresses. Bae remained for a while, helping her with the bits he could, but eventually asked:

“Can I go off to play, mama?”

She looked up, getting a sudden urge to grab him and hold him close. Her chores were almost finished for the time being, perhaps she could go out and play with her son before she sat down at the spinning wheel. She had the time.

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “Why don't you? In fact...”

He paused at the doorway, giving her a questioning look.

“I have some errands to run,” she said. “Perhaps you could stay over at Morraine's for a few hours?”

“Sure,” he said with a smile.

She smiled back. “You're such a good boy, Bae. Have fun, now.”

After he left, she remained for a little while, picking at things without getting anything done. Then, slowly, she took off her apron and hung it over a chair before going out the door.

Having left the house behind, she picked up the pace, walking towards the town square with a brisk stride she hadn't used in years. Only when she reached the inn did she falter again, and remained standing outside, doubts raised in her mind.

What was she _doing_ here? It wasn't even noon anymore, not properly, and despite her efforts there was still plenty to be done at home. The square was full of people hurrying along their way, and though few of them spared her more than a single disdaining glance, she balked at the thought of going into the inn, in the middle of broad daylight, to meet a strange man.

There was some shade in the corner, and she sat down, pretending to shake out a pebble in her shoe. This would normally take very little time, but she remained seated for nearly a quarter of an hour, before finding the resolve to just stand up and enter the inn.

Even craning her neck, she couldn't spot Captain Jones anywhere, and was about ready to leave again when a deep voice said, “Hello there.”

She spun around, and drew a shaky breath seeing the ruffian pirate from her first meeting with the Captain. His presence made her feel a little better. “Oh. It's you.”

Though he didn't smile, there was a definite hint of amusement in his expression. Relief was probably not among the main sensations people usually had upon seeing him.

“Yuh. You looking for the Captain?”

“Well,” she started, “I'm not... that is to say... if it isn't too much...”

“He's in the back. Think he's been expecting you.”

She followed him past all the diners to a large table in the back, where Captain Jones was sitting at the high end, his appeareance hidden from the door by man even taller than the one who accompanied her, though darker-skinned and not quite as wide over the shoulders.

“There you are!” Jones said with a wide grin upon seeing her. “You took your time, didn't you? I was starting to think you weren't coming. Fellows, this is Milah. Milah, you've got here Bilal, Cooper, Cecco, Soeng...” He rattled off a few more names and ended with, “And you've already met Mason.”

She stuck to that bit of information. “Mason,” she repeated, smiling at her old aquaintance. “Hello.”

“Have a seat!” Jones said, scooting in on the bench to leave room for her. As she sat down, he gave her a nudge of his shoulder and a wink. “I knew you couldn't stay away.”

She stood up abruptly, ready to leave, and he caught her hand.

“No, no,” he said. “That was a joke. I'm sorry. I'm sorry! Sit down. Please.” He gave her a rueful look as she sat back down. “So skittish. I hope it's not the crew giving you a fright?”

“No, of course not,” she said.

“Then it's me?” he asked with a wide grin. “Not so strange. I am a very impressive individual who can bring grown men a-quiver with fear.”

The crew roared with laughter, and Milah smiled a little. “So's a rat.”

“That's better,” he said softly. “The cat hasn't got your waspish tongue after all. What will you have?”

“Thanks, but I've eaten.”

“Ah, but you haven't eaten the house lamb. It's unmissable. Let's have some more lamb! Don't worry, it's on me. Or on Mason, if you'd rather.”

“Much obliged,” Mason said drily, and she offered him a smile.

“Are you flirting with my crewman?” Jones asked. “That won't do, it's captain's privilege.”

“But he's such a gentleman,” Milah said, being drawn in by the light mood. “Quite unlike you.”

“I am a perfect gentleman,” Jones declared. “Much more cultivated and refined than this band of scurvy dogs.”

The crew jeered.

“If that is how you speak of your men, I'm surprised that they haven't committed mutiny long ago.”

Jones waved that away. “Oh, they wouldn't dare.”

“I would.” Milah sat back and crossed her arms. “I would drop you off in... Atlantis.”

He chuckled, and a couple of the others did too. “Not a bad place to be, Atlantis.”

“Great food,” said the round-faced man next to her. She thought his name was Mullins.

“Beautiful architechture,” said Bilal, the tall man on the right of Jones, with a deep bass voice.

“And the science,” Jones filled in. “Don't forget the science. Though Lemuria has better climate.”

“You've been?” she asked, unable to keep the longing out of her voice. She had heard so much about Atlantis, even tried to draw it a couple of times, based on description and the occasional illustration. Lemuria she knew very little of, except that it was far away to the south-east and had magnificent animals unknown to these parts.

“Of course. We're well-traveled.” He raised his cup. “Everywhere the Navy of Avalon goes, we go to... stir up trouble.”

“Will you tell me about it?” she asked, ignoring another round of laughter.

“Why, do you want to go to Atlantis?” he asked.

The tone and his expression made it clear that it was a joke, but her response wasn't:

  
“More than anything.” In the silence that followed, she continued, “If I only could, I'd go to all of those places. Atlantis, Lemuria, Avalon...” She searched her memory for more foreign places. “Nysa, Nmkwami, Camelot, Hyperborea, Thule, Ruritania...”

“Don't forget Tir na nÓg,” Jones said softly.

“Ruritania's not worth going to,” a man further down the table scoffed. He had long, dark brown hair, dimples deep enough to plant seeds in, and a slight accent that Milah couldn't place. “It's much like the Enchanted Forest, only with worse cooks and louder music.”

“And Thule will freeze your arse off,” Bilal said.

“I don't care,” she said. “I'd want to see them all. Oh, if only I were a man!”

“Don't have to be a man,” said a short, stocky crewman further down the table. “Me mum's not.”

“Well, she's not like your mum, is she?” Mason snapped. “She's a respectable woman, ain't she?”

“Respectable,” Milah scoffed, and was overtaken by the hopelessness of it all, how she could never achieve that respect Mason unthinkingly assumed of her, yet remained too close to it to ever be free. Fighting the sensation, she grabbed Jones's arm, digging her fingers into his jacket. “Tell me about Atlantis.”

He swallowed the piece of bread that he'd just put in his mouth and replied, “As you wish. What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” she said. “Absolutely everything.”


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, Milah found it a little bit easier to tell Bae to go play while she ran some errands. Once he was out the door, she gathered up her drawings to show to Captain Jones. His stories had given her so much more material, and she could see already that her old drawings were ridiculously wrong. Most likely, he would laugh at them, but she didn't even care. As long as she got all she had in her head out on paper, she could face any amount of ridicule.

Before she could leave, however, Rumpelstiltskin returned from town, and her defences rose in an instant. No matter what, she wouldn't let him stop her, not when she finally had something to look forward to.

"Where are you going?" he asked. "Where's Bae?"

"Bae's fine, he's with Morraine," she said, raising her chin. "I'm off to see some friends."

"Friends?"

The disbelief in his voice made her furious. "Yes, friends. I'm allowed _friends_ , aren't I? If somebody deigns to talk to me, that's _permitted_ , isn't it?"

"Yes, of course," he said meekly.

The guilt she'd momentarily forgotten came crashing back, and she stared at him in silence for a moment before shaking her head. "Don't. Just don't."

She fought the shame all the way into town, tears burning behind her eyelids, but it dissipated when she stepped into the inn and was greeted with smiles and cheers from the crew. People she hadn't even met two days ago acted pleased to see her – genuinely, no strings attached pleased. It made her feel like a schoolgirl again, all problems forgotten for an hour of good food and cheerful conversation.

She wasn't the only one caught up in the good mood. Young men were so rare these days that some of the town's less discerning young women were gathering around the fairer members of the crew – of which the captain was most definitely one. No better than they should be, her mother would have said, and yet here Milah was, twice the age of some of those girls and heart pounding at the sight of him.

Jones caught sight of Milah and waved her over, gently nudging a girl further down the table who attempted to sit down next to him. The girl ended up next to the handsome crewman called Cecco instead, and didn't seem to mind the change in scenery.

"Hello, love," Jones said. "I was wondering if you'd honour us with your presence again. Do you want the lamb, or something else today?"

"I think I'd like some roasted salmon, please," she said, sitting down.

"Ah. Well, I'm a bit tired of fish myself, but whatever milady desires, you shall have. What's that you're holding? Something for us?"

"It's just some sketches," she said, handing them over. "I thought you could give me some critique, help me picture it more accurately."

The pirates sitting closest threw some curious glances towards the papers, and one of the girls craned her neck.

"I didn't mean..." Milah said, and seeing her face, Jones quickly gathered up the drawings and rose from his seat.

"This is between the artist and myself," he said. "If you'll pardon us."

He brought Milah along to a smaller table, and waved for their food to be carried over. Once they were alone, he leafed through the drawings, and his eyebrow shot up.

"I know they're not accurate," she said. "I was hoping you could help me fix them."

"They're good, though," he said. "Really good."

The surprise in his voice was a little too evident to be pleasant, and when he gave a snort of laughter at one of the pictures, she snatched them from his hands.

"All right, if you won't be of any help..."

"My apologies," he said, holding onto the edge of the bottom ones so they fell back on the table before him. "The thing is, as skillful as these are, it's clear you haven't been to any of these places."

"Of course not," she said, in a huff. "That's what I said!"

"As much as I'd love to help you, I'm not certain my abilities as a raconteur are up to the task. Take this." He held up one of the pictures left. "Is it meant to be the Temple of Wisdom?"

"Yes," she said.

"That's what I thought. Not only haven't you seen it, you haven't seen anything from that school of architechture. Have you?"

"No," she admitted.

He shook his head slowly. "I don't think I can describe it. Not well enough."

Her immediate reaction was disappointment, but it was followed pretty quickly by an impatient anger. "Well, you're going to _try_. Because it's not like I'm ever going to see it, and I've got to have _something_."

For a moment, he watched her in silence, and then he nodded. "All right. I'll do my best."

By the time she had finished the sketch she made on the back of her previous one, their food was growing cold and there were smudges of coal all across the table.

"Not entirely wrong," Jones deemed, holding up the picture towards the light. "Well done, love."

She took the drawing back and watched the domes and towers, getting an impression of the whole thing, now, rather than the details he kept demanding that she changed. "It's beautiful."

"It's even better on the inside – but that, I most certainly cannot do justice in words."

"This will do. Thank you." She put her hand over his and squeezed it in gratitude.

One of the maids was passed by, on her way to clear the next table over, and the disdain on her face was punctuated by a loud scoff. Milah's hand twitched in a reflex to remove it, but then she thought the better of it. Why should she correct her behaviour to meet an approval quite out of her reach in any case?

Jones, however, withdrew his hand with some hesitation. "Perhaps we should return to the others. I wouldn't want to cause any damage to your reputation."

She laughed, though she felt more like crying. His concern was absurd on so many levels, not least how much belated it after his thorough pursuit of her in the previous days. Then there was the fact that several of his crewmembers were engaged in flirtatious conversation with young women around the inn. Most disheartening of the absurdities was the notion that she would have any reputation to destroy, and that it should be guarded by a _pirate_ of all people.

"It literally cannot get any worse," she said.

There was a twitch of his eyebrow that suggested he was trying not to raise it, against his own instinct, and she realized too late what he had made of her words. Feeling a blush creeping up across her face, she decided that bluntness was the quickest way to handle the misunderstanding.

"I'm not a loose woman." Even speaking the words, it struck her how ridiculous they were, trying to claim any sort of virtue when she had deserted her duties at home to dine with a strange man.

"I wasn't..." he started, but halted and asked instead, "What is it, then?"

She hesitated, ashamed of having to tell the truth and change the carefree report that they had. "I'm... my husband was drafted for the ogre war. You have heard of the ogre war?"

"We do get news all the way out to sea, yes," he said, somber at the mention. "Yet he survived?"

"He never fought," she said bitterly. "He broke his own leg and was sent home."

"On purpose?"

She nodded, unable to meet his eyes. "And all for me and our son, or so he says."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. When she had first heard the rumours of Rumpelstiltskin's deed, she had refused to believe them. Their persistance had given her doubt, and when Rumpelstiltskin came back and admitted the truth without hesitation, she had been both sad and furious. But not until he spoke those words, claimed to have done it for her, did he finally kill her love, making her realise that any common ground she had believed them to have was all illusory. Rumpelstiltskin was, to all intents and purposes, more of a stranger to her than Jones was now, after three days' aquaintance. Likewise, she was a stranger to him – had to be, for him to believe even for a minute that she'd want him to abandon his comrades in battle for his personal survival.

"That's a wretched excuse indeed," Jones said with some heat. "But his choices are not yours. Why should you suffer for it?"

Even though she'd asked the same question to herself many times, guilt still rose up in her heart, along with Alma's face, hardened in grief.

"Everyone else died," she said. "I have a townful of widows and orphans who loathe me, because my coward of a husband came back to me, and no-one else's did."

"And they blamed you for that?"

She shrugged. "I suppose it's easier."

His eyes rested on her face with none of their former mockery. The sympathy presented to her almost made her tell him about Alma, about what this war and her husband's decision had made of her family, but she held her tongue. There were limits to how much she was willing to lay herself bare for this whelp.

"A heavy burden to bring home to a young wife," he said.

"Hence my refusal to let anything stop the most fun I've had all... year," she said, a wide if brittle smile across her face.

"Fun, eh?" he echoed. "Very well, fun it is. Let's get back to the crew and have some more food, some wine, songs and games. You like songs and games, don't you?"

He stood up and offered her a hand, waving for one of the junior crewmembers to bring back their food to the main table.

"I suppose I do," she said, amused at this sign of his youth, and how it didn't seem to occur to him that amusements suitable for young sailors on leave were not habitual for spinners' wives closer to forty than thirty. Still, there was no harm in it, and she found herself laughing as she was dragged to the table.

"Listen up, lads!" Jones told the men. "The lady requires entertainment. It is our duty to provide it to her, to the best of our abilities. And remember, hands off!"

The request was ridiculous, but given and taken in good cheer, and as Milah sat down among the others and was given a cup and some dice among these rough, weather-beaten men, she finally allowed herself to relax.

* * *

Despite the wine on her breath and late hour of her arrival, Rumpelstiltskin asked no questions that night, perhaps because she was still humming one of the silly songs Jones and his men had taught her. Their evening was peaceful and her sleep as well, leading to a fine mood in the morning, though she did her best to rein it in as she bid her husband farewell.

Bae was unusually subdued all morning, until she was finishing up her chores, when he pulled up a chair and sat down, his grave gazed fixed upon her.

"What is it, darling?" she asked, trying to keep her face somber to match his mood.

"Morraine's going to see her aunt tonight," he said. "They're leaving in the afternoon. Will you be gone long?"

She sat down opposite him, her stomach lurching in disappointment. "No. No, of course not. I'll... I'll just pop out for a little bit and come right back to you, all right, love?"

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded, though his eyes were still downcast and his lips tightened. Milah gave him an extra hug as she sent him on his way before going into town, tears rising up in her eyes.

Jones was sitting outside the inn, having some sort of discussion about charts with a crewman she hadn't seen the night before, a short, sharp-nosed man with salt and pepper hair, who gave her a quizzical look when she stopped to greet them.

"Welcome!" Jones said, and then, "Is something wrong?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and he ushered her upstairs, to a room that, while not very spacious, she knew to be one of the inn's finest. It seemed rather extravagant of him to have a room at all, and even more so a room like this, considering that there must be a captain's cabin on his ship. Perhaps he thought the change of scenery worth any price, and judging by the number of clothes and other items strewn about the place, it was more of a headquarters than a personal space.

"What is it, then, love?" he asked, giving her a slightly concerned gaze out of those damned blue eyes of his.

"I can't stay," she said with a sigh. "I only came to say that I can't. My boy's expecting me back home." There was some measure of satisfaction, no matter how small, in seeing her own disappointment mirrored in his expression. "I'll try to make it longer tomorrow..."

"We're leaving tomorrow."

She stopped short, trying to make sense of that impossible thought. "What?"

"First thing in the morning," he said, with a shrug that belied his serious face. "We're well-stocked and ready to go. This was only ever meant to be a week."

"Where are you going?" she asked, as if it mattered, as if _not here_ wasn't enough.

"Cockaigne first, then further south."

"But..." She couldn't ask him not to go. What would a pirate captain do in a town like this, not to mention his crew? It was a ridiculous notion, and they aquaintance was nowhere near close enough for her to make that sort of request. "When will you be back?"

He shrugged, with a helplessly apologetic expression.

"Won't you be back?" Her voice came perilously close to cracking.

"I suppose I will, some day. This isn't a vital harbour, though, most likely it will be a while before..." He stopped, biting his lip. "I could make myself an errand here, but it still might not be for months. I'm sorry. I can't make any promises."

"I understand," she said, wishing that she didn't, that she could in any way blame him, but the logic was obvious. He was tied to his life just as securely as she was to hers, more, even... "Take me with you."

"What?"

"Take me with you," she repeated, and though she hadn't even thought before saying it the first time, the repetition convinced her that it was the only solution that made any sense, because going back to how things had been was unbearable.

He withdrew, brows lowered. "You're not serious."

"Of course I am. I could work, be a pirate, or... clean the ship, I don't know, but I wouldn't be a burden. I promise."

"And what of your son?" he challenged. "The one you can't leave alone for a few hours. What would you do with him?"

She'd forgotten Bae. Sweet, darling Bae, who had made her misery bearable, and who she never quite had managed to keep safe and happy in return.

"I... can't you take him too?"

"Six, was he?" Jones asked, his customary sly glint replaced by solid steel. "Piracy is not a children's game. Were he twice the age, I'd consider it, but I will not rip a mere child from his home. Nor should you."

He spoke sense, she knew it, no matter how much her heart rebelled. But the alternative, to leave Bae behind and go off on her own, what kind of person would she be if she did that?

"So that's it, then," she said flatly. "Another girl at another shore."

His face softened, and he reached out to touch her cheek. "Not like you."

"Much younger, for one thing."

And much better bargains, to be sure, compared to a crabby matron past her prime. What he'd seen in her, she couldn't tell, and maybe she was fortunate that he'd leave before coming to his senses. But if she could have nothing else, at least she could have this moment, and she wouldn't let fear or propriety stop her. She leaned in, and kissed him, like she'd dreamed of night and day since she first lay eyes on him. With his soft lips meeting hers, she could have believed herself lost in the dream yet, but the roughness of his beard against her lips told her that this was reality, a blessed reality that she had not known for years. His hands tangled in her hair and she leaned into the touch, her own finding – oh, her mother would turn in her grave at such debauchery! – his fine, taut behind.

"I don't have to leave right away," she murmured.

His hands remained in her hair, but his voice was grave as he replied, "Don't do anything you'll regret, love."

That warning was ridiculously late, but the tears in her throat drowned the laughter. She was beyond caring what others might think, or what it would mean to her marriage. The only thing that held her back was the knowledge of how much harder it would be to give him up after if she gave in. Raising her hand to his chest, she felt his quick heartbeat, willing it to remain in body memory.

"We could go downstairs for a bit," she suggested.

"Aye," he said. "The lads would like that too, I think. Have a proper farewell."

* * *

This being their last day on shore, there were more pirates in the inn than on previous occasions, ranging from grizzled first mate Ryan to a small, darkish cabin boy who seemed to have something of interest going on outside, because he kept running into the room only to run out again. There was also a man in an ironed white shirt who looked down his long nose at her in a way that would have been intimidating if she hadn't had Mason and Bilal on her other side cracking dirty jokes. The taste of Jones's – Killian's – kiss remained in her mouth, and to rid herself of the sensation, she drained her cup of wine and had it refilled before even starting on the food.

Halfway through her meal, Cecco handed her some dice, his dimples deepening even further. "Care to join in the games, dove?"

"Thanks. I'd love to."

Although she hadn't played dice many times in her life, her work as a shop girl had trained her to keep numbers in her head, and she soon worked out when to keep her dice and when to re-roll them. While Killian had first helped her out, he soon sat back and just watched. At first, she won a few bread rolls and a half-drunk bottle of wine, but when the first coins gathered round her plate it made her grateful to be _winning_ , since if she had lost she'd have no way to pay them back. Sometimes a coin returned to its previous owner, or to someone else, but sooner or later it wormed its way back to her.

The pirates fortunately didn't seem to mind losing, and Killian's amusement was obvious, tinted with a certain pride as he ruffled her hair and said, "You're a clever one, aren't you?"

"Care to test your wits against mine, Captain?"

"Oh, I can take you," he assured her, with the customary suggestive tone, but beneath his raised eyebrows there was a dark melancholy in his eyes that reminded her that he'd never get a chance to fulfill those suggestions.

She pulled the bottle of wine closer and poured herself another cup. "You're on, then."

It felt like no more than an hour at the most before a meek, far too familiar voice called, "Milah?"

The crowd parted to reveal Rumpelstiltskin, looking more the grey mouse than ever surrounded by rowdy pirates.

"It's time to go," he told her, and she could see the dusk in the doorway behind him. There was something she was supposed to have done, she knew, some reason she wasn't meant to stay this long, but the sight of him annoyed her so much she pushed the feeling aside and scoffed at him instead.

"Who's this?" Killian asked with feigned disinterest.

"Ah, it's no one," she said, a desire bubbling up to hurt and humiliate and pay forward every rotten word ever said to her. "It's just my husband."

Killian's grin was wide but cold as he made a crack about her husband's height that had nothing to do with stature, and she laughed along with the crew. If she could have nothing else, at least she could make that damned little mouse pay for holding her back. She started speaking to him, every cruel word that she'd long stopped vocalizing because what was the point? It would change nothing. But tonight was different, she could not _abide_ him tonight and by heavens he would hear it.

"...Run home, Rumpel," she finished off, taking another drink. "It's what you're good at."

For a moment, she couldn't understand why she'd ever stopped saying things like that, when it felt so good. Then, another voice spoke, making her breath catch and all her remorse come flooding in.

"Mama?"

Bae. Bae, who couldn't go to Morraine's today, and she'd promised him to come home on time, she'd _promised_ , and instead he'd heard... and damned it all, he'd _seen_...

If the world and the gods and her own pathetic excuse for a husband saw her as a drunken slattern, she could live with that, but Bae deserved better. And not only had she ruined herself in his eyes, she'd ruined Rumpel as well, and say what you wanted about the man, he'd _always_ been a devoted father.

Mortified, she slunk away, not even giving Killian or the others a glance farewell as she took Bae and led him out of that place.

Somehow she made her way home without stumbling or throwing up, keeping as much poise as she could manage even though the damage was already done. She put Bae to bed, and while she didn't want to kiss him for fear of all the wine he'd smell on her, she did caress him and sing him to sleep.

Two glasses of water and a visit to the privy later, she crawled into bed herself, halfway sober and with a head that had already started pounding.

Rumpel, sitting by the fire to make her some peppermint tea, asked haltingly, "You don't really wish I'd died during the ogre wars, do you?"

Her thoughts touched on Alma, devastated and alone. On her aunt, overtaken by ill health after she'd lost all of her sons. Would she have mourned so much, had Rumpel died too? They had loved each other once, in a way. Now, she couldn't bring back the feeling for the life of her. She didn't wish him dead, no. She wished him _gone_ , gone from her life, except then there was Bae, who adored his father, who would have grown up without him. Would that have been better? It was an impossible game, a fantasy, and if she was to lose herself in fantasies, then why not the one that might have made everything all right?

"I wish you'd fought," she said. "Don't you?"

"Well, I'm alive," he said. " And I'm here with you, with Bae."

After all these years, he still didn't get it. Tiredness spread in her veins, and she wanted so much to hate him, or to love him, to feel _anything_ but this rot in her heart and this helpless rage. She couldn't have Killian, or the open sea, or her freedom, but wasn't there something else than this life to choose?

"Why can't we just leave?" she pleaded. "You don't have to be the village coward! We could start again, go somewhere no one knows us, see the whole world beyond this village..." The pirates' tales of foreign places returned to her mind. If she could once in her life see the Temple of Wisdom, inside and out, that might make the rest all right. And even if they never got that far, getting anywhere at all would be an improvement. Perhaps, with the remnants of their old life left behind, she could find it in herself to be the wife and mother she was supposed to be.

"I know this isn't the life you wanted," he deflected, "but it can be good here. At least try. If not for me, then for Bae."

Always Bae. The one true beauty in her life, wrought into a chain around her feet, and was Rumpel doing this on _purpose_? It didn't matter either way, she supposed. The truth still held. She couldn't bring Bae along on a pirate ship, Killian was right about that. Rumpel wouldn't leave with her. Leaving alone would make her the worst kind of mother and woman, worthy at last of the scorn she had faced. If she stayed, she'd have to be... she'd have to try to be the paragon of virtue they asked of her, and kill every part of her that rebelled. The dreams of the world beyond, the coldness of her family still aching in her bones, the forbidden lust for a pair of blue eyes, the sharp words on her tongue and the hard pride in her heart, it would all have to die or she'd poison everyone around her.

Could she do it? All the mockery she had made of Rumpel for not being willing to die for his duties, could she live up to that standard? Let patience and humiliaty kill her and reform her into something new, and find some gratification in that? It would be a true wonder if that happened.

"Okay," she whispered, more because she wanted to sleep and escape this conversation, than because she still believed in any wonderful things.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite the peppermint tea and the glasses of water, Milah woke up at dawn with a desperate need to turn her stomach inside out. She hurried out of the cottage, squinting at the light, and made it halfway to the privy before throwing up, hunched over and shuddering.

When she returned, she found the water pails empty and picked them up to get some more.

"Milah?" Rumpel called.

"I'm just fetching some water," she said, throat burning, and he rolled over on his stomach, going back to sleep.

She stopped by Bae's bed and put the pails down to give him back his pillow, which had fallen down on the floor during the night. He moved slightly when she slid the pillow under his head, but didn't wake.

"I love you so much, little man," she whispered, kissing his sleep-warm hand.

The usually easy task of fetching water was uncomfortable in her current state, and when she'd filled her pails she rested by the well, drinking some of the water and waiting for her stomach to settle and her throat to stop burning. The headache she feared was a lost cause.

It would be the easiest thing in the world, she thought, to crawl into a bottle and never come out. She'd seen it done time and time again. After a while there was nothing left of the person that had been, nothing but a pathetic longing for the next drink, and that was a bloody lot easier to come by than what ached in her soul.

She could see the cottage, but actually going back to it seemed a hard chore and she lingered as long as she could, until she noticed one of the neighbour wives, off to milk the cows, giving her an odd look. Cheeks heating, she rose and grabbed the pails, starting to walk back, although when the woman had disappeared into the barn Milah's steps slowed again, and then stopped.

For a moment she stood still, thoughts chasing each other through her head, and then she dropped the pails hard on the ground as if they'd burned her hands, water splashing over her dress.

None of her racing thoughts sent any kind of message to her feet as she turned on her heels and walked past the neighbouring cottages, past the groves and meadows, down to the shore and then along the waterfront. Her steps were not quick, not at first, but there was no hesitation in them, moving of their own accord without asking permission. Soon she stopped thinking altogether, trusting that her feet knew what they were doing.

Sand and pebbles made their way into her clogs, but she didn't slow down, eyes fixed on the horizon, searching every ship and boat in sight. When she saw nothing but the ordinary fishing boats, she broke into a run.

There – a larger unfamiliar blot of bright colours that made her heart race faster even before she came close enough to see its conturs shape themselves into a ship. Two men guarded the vessel from below, with a languid economy of movement that might suggest that they were just loitering, except for the way that they hardened into looming menace whenever anyone came too close.

As Milah approached, they unconsciously took that hard stance, and she was half prepared to back off, but sternly told herself that she _knew_ these men. It was Ryan, the first mate, and a crewman called Cooper. They quickly pegged her as a woman and relaxed, and when recognition hit their eyes they returned almost to their previous slouching.

Milah swallowed, wondering why the power that had made her walk this far couldn't also grant her words. "I'm here to see the captain."

"He's in his cabin," Cooper said, his creaky voice even creakier with caution. "Do you want to send him a message?"

The phrasing of any potential message escaped her, and she'd much prefer it if she could talk to Killian away from curious eyes, so she asked, "Can I... can I have permission to come on board? And see him myself?"

Cooper glanced at Ryan, who shrugged and called up to the ship: "Teynte!"

The young, skinny face of the cabin boy, topped off with short-cropped black hair, became visible over the gunwale.

"Come down here!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" the lad said and disappeared for a moment before reappearing on the gangplank.

Up close, Teynte turned out to be even younger than Milah had first pegged him as. His face, with its soft features and lack of hair apart from some fine black down near the plump mouth, claimed his age as 12 or 13 at the most, thought he moved with a self-certainty that suggested him to be an experienced man of the world.

"Mistress Milah requests a meeting with the captain, "Ryan said. "You're to escort her on board."

"Come on, then," Teynte said with a nod towards the ship, but after a cough from Ryan gave an exaggerated bow instead. "Milady, if you please?"

"Milah's fine," she said. "Thanks."

As she stepped on board after Teynte, Milah wished deeply that she'd met Mason instead, or Bilal, or another one of those rough-looking pirates that she'd come to know better. At least this child was a good deal more comforting to be around than those two below – not to mention more comforting than the haughty one standing by the stairs, who gave her a long, disdaining glance. Milah turned her gaze aside and became far too aware that she was still in her nightgown.

Teynte, however, was not remotely impressed. "Oh, all looking down your nose like some camel. This one's here to see the captain. Is he free for visitors?"

"For her?" he asked. His voice was surprisingly cultivated, which added to his cold, appraising tone. "Probably. Go ask him."

Teynte scuttled down below decks and motioned for Milah to do the same. When she did, one of her clogs fell off, and there was an explosive curse under her feet.

"I'm _so_ sorry!" Milah panted and hopped down the last bit.

"Don't worry about it," Teynte said, half laughing through the winces of pain. "I figure my head's hard enough to match any clog. Not the best shoes for shipwear, though."

Milah mumbled another apology and was then distracted by the nearby door, especially since Teynte was now knocking on it.

"Come in," Killians voice called, and Milah found herself ushered inside, face to face with him in the simple yet genteel environment that marked the captain's quarters.

"Milah!" he said, and she thought she heard a warmth underneath the surprise. If there were any darker emotions there as well, she did not want to know. "To what do I..."

"Take me with you," she said.

There was a low whistle from behind her, and Killian spoke with a dangerous calm as his blue eyes remained fixed on Milah, "Teynte, do step outside and close the door."

Once the door was closed with the cabin boy outside, Killian's features softened. "Are you sure?"

"I can't go back," she said, for the first time contemplating what would happen if he turned her away. Rumpelstiltskin would take her back, she had no doubt, the affront to his pride notwithstanding. He wouldn't have the courage to refuse her. But she couldn't. She _wouldn't_. If she wasn't allowed on the ship, she'd jump overboard rather than ever set foot in that cottage again, though some sense of pride of her own prevented her from saying so out loud.

"What about...?" He paused, and she fought off the image of Bae that filled the silence. "Have you thought this through?"

"Does someone drowning think before they grab the rope?" she shot back. "I've thought since last night, I'm done thinking."

There was another pause, and then he nodded, slowly. "As you wish."

He opened the door again, quickly enough that Teynte had to jump back not to get hit in the face.

"Take her to Cook," he said. "See if she's got any suitable clothes."

"Oh no, I..." Milah started immediately to protest, then silenced as she realized that she didn't really have much choice.

Teynte grimaced. "Anything of Cook's will go twice around her."

"Well, give it a try," Killian said mildly. "I will not offer menswear to a lady if I can help it – no matter how much some members of your sex seem to prefer it."

It took a moment for the implication of the comment to sink in, and when it did she stared at Teynte as the cabin boy's slight build took on a whole new meaning.

"You're a girl!?"

"Want to make something of it?" Teynte asked, chin up.

"No, sorry, of course not," Milah said, trying to match up the laddish attitude with the admittedly girly face and the... well, the clothes were loose-fitting and she was _not_ going to stare. She blushed in consternation.

"Don't be rude to the guest," Killian said. "Now, get going."

* * *

Cook turned out to be a pale, tired-looking woman in grey, lumpy clothes, well past fifty years of age, and if Teynte's estimation of her size had been ungenerous, it wasn't off by much. Her width was matched to some degree by her height, which forced her to bend over slightly under the low ceiling of the galley. Yet the fine contours of her face and the graceful way she moved gave an impression of beauty – faded, perhaps, but there nonetheless. She took the fried mushrooms and the pot of beans off the brick stove before deigning to give the two of them any attention.

"What have we here then?" she asked.

"My name's Milah," Milah said. "I'm... I'm staying on the ship."

"Captain sent us down here for clothes," Teynte added.

" _My_ clothes?" Cook asked. "And then what will he do, put her on deck as a scarecrow? Don't you have anything of your own?"

"I left in a bit of a hurry," she admitted.

"I'd say." Cook scratched her nose. "I don't think we've got anything in store, though you could ask Starkey. Actually, come to think of it, you might not look half bad in one of Starkey's shirts. We might have boots for you too, so that leaves skirts. I do have a wrap-around. Put a belt on that, and it should last you until next loot at least."

"Thank you," Milah said.

"Don't mention it." With a quick nod at them to follow, Cook took off her apron, wiped off her hands on it and ducked into a room behind the galley.

There wasn't much in there except a bed that filled up most of the floor, and a chest by its foot end. While the other two waited in the doorway, Cook rummaged about for a skirt.

"Do you mean to be a pirate, then?" she asked into the chest. "Or are you aiming for my job?"

"A pirate, I suppose," Milah said. She hadn't really thought of what she'd _do_ at a pirate ship once she got there, but she certainly didn't want to put anyone out of a job.

"She's the captain's _friend_ ," Teynte said in a tone of voice that didn't mean friend at all.

Cook put a hand on the bedframe and straightened up, skirt in hand. "Oh," she said, handing it to Milah. "I guess that solves the problem of where you'd be sleeping."

"Does it?" Milah asked faintly, with a certainty that this was the point where she went from out of her depth to full-on panic. Sleeping with Killian. Which, _yes_ , the mere thought of it sent shivers up her body, but sleeping with him _now_? Right after leaving her husband, and it hadn't been any sort of marriage, but she'd only known Killian for a week, and this was... it wasn't... Was that why he'd let her on board? She supposed she owed him that much, but she hadn't wanted to owe him. She had wanted to – well, to love him. At her own pace.

"Unless you mean to take on more than just the Captain?"

"No," Milah said, quickly quenching the spike of fear that the question raised. "I hadn't."

Feeling even more self-conscious, she thanked Cook for the skirt and went with Teynte back to the stairs.

"Hey, Starkey!" Teynte called up them.

The haughty one ducked down his head and asked in a quiet voice that nevertheless carried through to Milah, "Can you keep her below deck a little longer?"

"What's going on?" Teynte asked, eyes narrowed.

"Just ten minutes or so?"

"We need a shirt. Can we have one of yours?"

"Not the lacy one," Starkey said, and straightened up hastily.

Teynte shook her head as they retreated. "That was odd."

"I will be allowed to leave, won't I?" Milah asked, her voice shrill, because Starkey had been much too eager to keep her out of sight. Straining her ears, she could hear him now calling out, "On your feet for the Captain!"

"You want to leave?" Teynte asked. "I thought you meant to stay here."

"I... yes, I am. But..."

The girl smiled. "Don't worry, we don't take prisoners. Too much trouble. Whatever's going on up there, it's got nothing to do with you."

She scurried through the sailor's quarters, past the cabins with eight or ten bunks in each, until she reached the one she was looking for. In front of each bottom bunk there was a combined seating area and box, and Teynte pushed the mattress aside to open the lid.

"Starkey's so prim you wouldn't believe," she said, rummaging through the box in a way Milah suspected wouldn't endear either of them to its owner. "Used to be an officer, same as the captain, except I never saw the captain put on airs like that. Got clothes as pretty as any you could want, he picks them out of the loots... how about this one?"

She held up a cobalt blue shirt with a round folded-down collar sewn on. It was a finely woven piece that would look decidedly strange in combination with Cook's grey wrap-around skirt, but there was no doubt that it was a fair deal better than the nightdress.

"Are you sure he won't mind?" Milah asked.

"He said not the lacy one. This isn't the lacy one." Teynte threw it to Milah and got up to close the door. "Come on, get changed, I'll cover for you."

Milah started to undress, trying to think of Killian as an officer. He'd learned fine speech and manners, even better than the ones she'd been forced to adopt back when she was a shopgirl, but there had been the occasional slip that made her believe it was a pattern learned late in life, not a matter of fine breeding. Maybe that had been wishful thinking on her part, making them more equal.

She also wondered what would happen if one of the pirates wanted to come into the cabin while she was changing. If Teynte would be able to hold them back.

"Do you feel safe here?" she asked.

"It's a pirate ship, isn't it?" Teynte answered, puzzled. "That's a dangerous job. We've had crew die. And it's not a year since Mason lost his eye."

"No, I meant... from the crew."

The girl's eyes rested thoughtfully on Milah's breasts under the as of yet unbuttoned shirt.

"Oh. _That_ kind of safe. Sure. The Captain gave me a dagger when I first came on board, but I never had much call to use it outside of work. Truth be told, I think most of the time they forget I'm not a bloke. Not that it would make much difference to some of them, but no, they wait until they get ashore or they ask Cook. We've had a lady on board a couple of times too. You're not the first."

"I'm not?" asked Milah, who had finished the buttons and was trying to make headway with the skirt. What other women had there been, and in what capacity? Cook's question became more clear if there used to be such a thing as a ship's wench.

Teynte grinned. "Don't worry. Nobody would dare touch the captain's girl. It really is safe – at least a whole lot safer than Gropecunt Lane."

Milah winced at 'the captain's girl' but her interest was caught by another phrase. "That's where you were before this? Grope... that sort of place?" She had wondered what would make a little girl choose a pirate's life, but that would do it all right.

"Aye."

"How old were you?"

"Twelve. Four years ago, this midwinter."

"You're sixteen?" Even knowing that Teynte was a girl, Milah had unconsciously stuck to the original estimation of her age.

"Getting too old for this job, I know. As soon as they find another runt to be cabin boy, I'll be promoted." Seeing how Milah struggled with making the skirt fit, Teynte bent down and fished the aforementioned dagger out from her boot. She rummaged some more in Starkey's box and took out a belt, which she punched a couple of extra holes in with the dagger. "There you go."

"Thank you." She hoped prim Starkey wouldn't mind too much about his belt being stolen and ruined.

"You look a whole lot better in that shirt than Starkey does," Teynte said with a tinge of pride. "Bet the captain will like it."

Milah really wished she'd stop saying that.

* * *

When they made it back onto the deck a while later, there was a tension among the crew, like the feeling in the air before a thunderstorm. Cecco gave her one of his easy smiles, but wouldn't meet her eyes, and some of the others seemed even more awkward.

Mason greeted her with a surprisingly soft, "Welcome aboard, lass. We're glad to have you."

"Thank you," she said, warmed by the sentiment but not much enlightened as to what was going on.

She spotted Killian towards the bow and made her way over, which brought her into Starkey's path.

"Oh! Hello again," she said, thinking of the once-pristine clothes she'd not quite managed to fold as neatly as before. "Thank you for the shirt. I hope you don't mind about the belt."

His gaze drifted down and he took on a slightly pained expression at the sight of the new holes, but he bowed. "Think of it as a gift."

So he did mind. His courtesy made her feel even more awkward, and she thanked him again, a tangled apology included, before finally reaching Killian.

When Killian saw her coming, his face softened, but there was something else beyond, a simmering anger that made her even more convinced that she had been deliberately kept out of whatever ugliness had been happening on deck. Did they think she couldn't take the harsher sides of piracy? That didn't bode well for her future on the ship.

 _Could_ she take the harsher sides of piracy? She'd never fought anyone to the death, and while she'd seen her share of mortal injuries – who hadn't, these days? - causing them would be another matter. But if they insisted on mollycoddling her she'd never learn, and then what would she be good for?

Killian rested a hand on her shoulder, sending shivers down her spine. "There you are, lass. Looking lovelier than ever. That colour suits you."

"It's Starkey's," she said.

"I know. You're prettier."

It was his usual brand of shameless flirtation, yet it felt so much more serious now. He had given her passage, and his crew had given her clothes, and she _owed_ him.

She was spared having to come up with something to say as Ryan called from further down the deck: "Captain, we're ready to set sail!"

"Hold off departure a little while longer!" he called back.

"What are we waiting for?" she asked.

"Oh, maybe an angry mob or something like that," he said with a light, carefree smile that suggested a joke, except that it was as false as a tin coin.

"Why, what have you done?"

"Nothing, really." He brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead. "Gods, that shirt brings out the colour of your eyes."

"What makes you think there's an angry mob coming?"

"Actually, I don't think there is," he said, sounding disappointed – no, stronger than that, disgusted, though he quickly shook it off. "Have you eaten? I believe Cook has breakfast ready."

She was still too crapulous to care much for food, but her stomach reminded her that it still needed sustenance.

"Breakfast sounds lovely," she said.

Perhaps it was an after-effect of last night's wine, or the grinding guilt that still remained at the back of her head, but she felt an urge to cry. Her presence was a burden on everyone, and yet no-one grumbled, not even Starkey with his haughty face and his legitimate reasons to be upset, or Cook, who in addition to the skirt gave Milah a rather fuller plate of breakfast than she wanted. There was just so much _kindness_ , beyond any she had known for the past seven years, and it was given to her by a gang of pirates, at a point where she deserved no kindness at all.

When the ship at last started moving in the sea, Milah returned to the deck and stood by the gunwhale, watching the shore fade into the horizon, and she let the tears fall. She wrapped her arms around herself and cried for her little boy that she'd never hold again, and once the tears had started she kept crying for Alma, for the childhood they'd had together and which had been hopelessly ruined. She cried for her parents, even though they were both long since dead, and even for Gerald, whose name she'd been cursing long before he died. Her whole life was being ripped away, not just the present, but the past – but the strongest, fiercest tears were the ones of relief. She never had to go back there again.

"Are you all right?"

Killian. She shakily tried to wipe the tears away. "I'm fine. Sorry."

He gently put an arm around her shoulders and said, "We can arrange for you to be taken back, if you'd rather. Take another lap around the bay and put a boat in for someone to bring you home."

"No," she said, with a vehemence that would have stood even if his suggestion hadn't mean even more unnecessary work for his crew. " _Never_."

He pulled her closer, his chest against her back, with his breaths creating a soft, rhythmic motion. The touch was comforting, but when she looked up over her shoulder at his face, she'd have to be blind not to see the desire in his expression. Her body responded in kind, and her first instinct was to quench the temptation. But she could no longer lay any claim to being a married woman. After all these years, she was free. All she had to do was pay for her freedom, and that shouldn't be any sort of sacrifice.

_Whore._

That was what it came down to, wasn't it? If she took to Killian's bed, as everyone expected, she'd be doing it in gratitude, as remuneration of all that he and his crew had done for her. That was whoring, plain and simple. Running off with a strange man was bad enough, but if she could have claimed unbridled passion there would at least be something romantic about it. The truth was, though, that she didn't think she'd ever be unbridled again. Had they met on equal terms, she wouldn't be willing to let him in so close, so quickly, whatever her body said. Yet she was going to do it, in order to fulfill a sense of obligation that had been woefully missing in her dealings with her actual family.

The truth of it was, as much as she despised herself for it, whoring herself out for Killian was infinitely preferable to her married life.

She turned around, wrapped her arms around Killian's neck, and kissed him. This wasn't the tender regret of their first kiss, when she'd believed it to be their last. This kiss promised more, much more, and rather than restricting herself, she deliberately pressed up against him.

He returned the kiss with youthful eagerness, but there was skill in his approach, not too deep, teasing his tongue into her mouth rather than shoving it.

The ship lurched, and they broke free, he grabbing her arms to prevent her from stumbling.

"Bloody hell, woman," he breathed. "I'm half tempted to give command to Ryan and spend the whole day with you."

"But you won't?" she asked.

He shook his head ruefully. "But I can't."

That would have been too easy, getting it over and done with right away to clean the slate. Instead she spent the day waiting.

Oh, she did plenty of other things as well. She learned the layout of the ship, and the name of at least _some_ of the other crewmembers, though they tended to get tangled, and the cook's son turned out to just go by the name "Cookson".

"But that's ridiculous!" she protested to Teynte. "Cook is bad enough, but Cook- _son_? Surely he must have a name of his own!"

Teynte shrugged. "I think it's Fred. Or Frank. Something like that. What difference does it make? We've all got names to use, that's the important part."

Milah supposed that _was_ the important part, and that she shouldn't really complain, since a name like that made him fairly easy to remember. Soeng was the only crewman from Tsapfan, and Murphy was one of only two from Nmkwam, Bilal being the other, so they were easy too. Foggerty and Mullins had the same round faces and brownish hair, and she sometimes confused them when they were silent, but Foggerty stood out whenever he opened his mouth and revealed that Ruritanian accent. There were others she couldn't manage at all. By the end of it, she started to fear that even the ones she _had_ learned would fall out of her memory.

She wasn't used to being around this many people. Even during the last week, in the inn, she had been mostly focused on Killian, but now he had to work, and she was far too nervous of what lay ahead to hang around him anyway.

Towards noon, the wind increased, which helped the ship's speed but not her stomach, which lurched along with every rolling movement of the decks. She only had to seek out the becurtained hole in the bow once, but it left her paler and more trembling than before. Dinner was harder to handle than breakfast, and Cook gave her a wry smile and some ship's biscuits, as well as pouring some apple vinegar in her water.

"If it gets worse, ask Soeng for some beginner's cuffs," she said. "No shame in it."

And perhaps there wasn't, but Milah was already tired of asking for things, so instead of getting beginner's cuffs, whatever those were, she excused herself after lunch and went to sit in a corner of the stern, as far out of the way as possible.

The waves danced below, rocking the boat, and the shapes and colours mesmerised her, overriding her queasiness as she thought of what it would be like to try and capture that dance on paper. The motion would have to be translated to stillness, of course, but how did you make a still image of something that never stilled? The sea was difficult enough to capture from shore, but out here it was another creature entirely, and she longed to show Bae, point out the most beautiful formations and watch him get gently sprayed by the highest waves. He'd ask about the people moving on deck, and she'd introduce them: Mason with his frightening countenance and dry sense of humour, Cecco, more vain than even the captain, Teynte, who'd been just a child herself when she came on board.

Never was such an awfully long time. It was easier to think of someday. Someday she'd get to show him – and she tried to avoid imagining what he'd have to say to her, that someday.


	4. Chapter 4

There were far too many new impressions for the day to ever drag on, but it was still with a sense of relief mixed with trepidation that she reached the end of it.

"I'm sorry to have neglected you," Killian told her when he came to get her. "I hope you haven't been bored?"

She swallowed. "Not at all."

"Well," he said, "perhaps you would still like to join me for a drink in the captain's cabin."

"Of course" she said, commanding her limbs to stop shivering as she followed him downstairs.

The first thing she noticed was the narrow bed, or bunk, with drawers below and a wooden beam close enough that you'd have to mind it not to knock your head. Not the most comfortable of places, but she'd been in worse. If he even meant to do it on the bed – the table, in the middle of the cabin, was large enough. The whole area was large, and now that she had more time to look around than she'd had before, she saw the number of leather-bound volumes on the shelves, and the little mermaid statuettes adorning the window-frames. At least there were plenty of things to fiddle with.

"Pretty," she said, running her finger along one of the mermaids, from the arms crossed over the chest to the tipped-up fish tail.

"And a lot more docile than the living kind," he said, opening one of the cupboards. "I think there's a bottle of red wine here somewhere – I can't very well offer rum to a lady."

"I'd love rum," she said, feeling that the stronger the drink the better at this point.

"Really? Then you shall have it." He took out the bottle of rum and two cups, handing her one of them. "To your journey – may it be a fortunate one."

"To my journey," she said, "and the captain taking me."

He smiled and clinked his cup against hers. "Indeed."

The rum burned on its way down, and she clung to the sensation. Killian's eyes were on her, and she knew she had to succumb to that, but postponed it by asking, "Have you read all of those books?"

"Most of them," he said. "Piracy can be slow sometimes... and I don't always have the pleasure of your company."

Taking a book out of the shelf, he browsed through it. "Hang on, let me show you... here." He tilted the page in her direction, and she stepped closer to see.

There was an engraving of a building, with large rounded roofs and towers, and she recognized it from the poor attempt she'd made to create its likeness a few days before.

"That's the Temple of Wisdom," he said.

She could find no words to describe its beauty and only sighed, lost in the multitude of shapes.

"I don't have a picture of the interior, but... we'll be stopping by Cockaigne first, this little town called Sextiae, but after that we're headed for Atlantis, and I'll show you."

"You'll take me to Atlantis?" she asked, awed by the concept of finally getting to see the wonders she'd heard so much about.

"In just a couple of weeks."

It was happening. All the things she had dreamed about were actually _happening_ , and she gave him a wide smile, his arms around her and everything right with the world for a brief moment.

Until he reached down and kissed her, and she froze.

He pulled back instantly. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said, heart pounding. "Don't stop. Get it over with."

"Get it...?"

She hadn't meant to say that out loud, and she kissed him back to make him forget her words. The strategy seemed to work – he pulled in closer, trailing kisses along her jaw.

When she had rehearsed this in her mind, she'd assumed that Killian would only need a little push to get started, if that, and then proceed on his own. In reality, whenever she stopped reciprocating he'd continue for a little while and then trail off, puzzled. It wasn't smooth sailing so much as a little lost rowboat. Milah refused to believe that a man of Killian's age and fine features wouldn't know his way around a woman, and she realized with a sinking feeling that he didn't just want her – he wanted her to want him.

Which, dear Gods, she was already starting to soak the inner layers of the skirt and he hadn't even reached below the waist yet, but at the same time she couldn't stop the shudders of revulsion at his touch. At herself, in this situation with someone who was not just her captain but her saviour, with the only way she could repay him being to give him anything he wanted. His crew already talked about them like they were a done deal, while her bed back home hadn't yet gone cold.

She had inured herself to having to sell her body once, but to keep it up, with a man who, under other circumstances, she could have loved as he should be loved? In the long run, she'd either have to break his heart or become his kept woman. Was there nothing in this world that she wouldn't destroy just by touching it?

Killians hand moved down her shirt – Starkey's shirt, not hers – undoing all of the buttons, and she sat down on the bed, prepared to lie down and take what was coming. When he leaned in against her, she could feel him getting hard, and hoped that he would not take long.

Then he looked up from his activities, met her gaze, and drew back.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

The thought of outright lying to him became too much, and she burst into tears.

"Sshh," he said, withdrawing further. "It's fine, you don't have to..."

"I'm sorry," she said, wrapping her arms around herself like one of his mermaids.

He reached out to wipe the tears from herself, and she flinched. This was all wrong, this was him doing even more for her, and she couldn't even pull herself together enough not to hurt him more.

"I thought I could do it," she said. "I owe you so much, and I can't even manage to do this for you."

His hand snatched back as if she'd burned him. "Is that what this is? Payment?"

Shame clogged her throat, and she couldn't reply.

"I thought... I thought we were..." He broke off and stood up abruptly, staring out the window, the muscles in his jaw tensing. "You don't owe me anything."

No matter how much she wished that was true, it didn't change reality. She turned away and started doing up her buttons with fumbling hands.

The warm shadow of his hand hovered above her shoulder, and she steeled herself, but then he exhaled through his teeth and left, door slamming behind him.

At that, her tears flowed even more freely, and while she knew she ought to dress herself and leave the cabin, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Where would she go? Out to face the crew, their disappointment or derision? There was nowhere else – she certainly couldn't stay in here, having practically thrown the captain out of his own cabin.

Was this what she had abandoned Bae for? Just another form of misery? She supposed it was no more than she deserved.

There was a knock on the door, and she tried to wipe her tears away, before she determined that getting her shirt back on was her first priority. While she was doing that, the door opened and Teynte stepped in.

"Well, you're a right mess," she said, eyeing Milah, who slowed her frantic attempts to cover up. After a moment's hesitation, she asked, "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

Milah shook her head, ashamed to have brought such suspicions upon the captain.

"I didn't think so, but you never know with people, do you?"

Milah wiped her eyes and returned to getting her clothes on straight. "I just couldn't go through with it."

"Why the bloody hell not?" Teynte asked, sitting down on the bed. "Don't get me wrong, if any man tried to stick his cock in me I'd just as soon cut it off him, but you seemed to like the captain."

"I do," Milah said. "That's the worst of it."

"How?"

Milah shrugged, unable and unwilling to put her feelings into words. She wondered if Teynte had been sent to get her out of there. She couldn't stay the night, after all, the captain would need his cabin. Perhaps she could stay on deck, in the corner she'd occupied before, but it was bound to get cold during the night.

"Do you know if there's a bunk I could sleep in?" she asked tentatively.

"You can have mine. I'll use the top one instead."

"Oh, but... I didn't mean to..."

Teynte just rolled her eyes and pulled Milah up from the bed. "It's either that or Cook's room, and she wouldn't like losing the extra income. Anyway, the captain's in there now."

Milah stopped short on her way out of the room. "The captain's... with Cook?" After what she'd done, she had no right to get upset, no claim on him whatsoever, but it still stung that he'd be so ready to go from her to another woman just to satiate his lust.

"For advice, not venery," Teynte said, but added with a chuckle, "Though with the way he was walking, it might be both."

The thought of Killian discussing her with Cook was a bit more palatable, if not much, and Milah followed, mollified, into the next cabin. Teynte's bunk was by the door and covered with a curtain, which was now briskly shoved aside so that the girl could climb up to the top and hand down all the items she'd stacked there. It was clothes, mostly, including some strange bodices that looked like they'd flatten anything below – which, Milah realized, was the point. She put those in the box below, along with the weapons, money purse, and few personal trinkets.

It took some inventive packing to fit it all in, since the box was already occupied with items that, by the size of them, were _not_ Teynte's and most likely belonged to Bilal and Soeng, who had the next pair of bunks and were already asleep. Milah tried to keep their things as neat and undisturbed as possible, but still had to refold some clothes to make room for Teynte's things. Pulling the curtain, she finished by taking off her own new clothes and placing them on top, apart from the clogs, which she left standing in the corner. At least she had a nightdress to call her own.

Lying down under the blanket, she could hear Teynte rummage about up in the top bunk, getting ready for sleep. Around them, more sailors came in to do the same, and Milah was grateful that the curtain meant she didn't have to face them. Eventually, all the bustle was replaced with the slow breaths of sleep, or in some unfortunate instances, snoring. Along with the waves hitting the side of the ship, and the creaking of the wood, it made for a louder bedchamber than she was used to, but at least she had the bunk all to herself.

The heavy darkness was calming to her worn-out thoughts, and she slowly drifted off – until the moment when she woke up with a jolt and called out, "Bae!" certain that she had fallen and dropped him somewhere.

It took a few heart-pounding moments for her to realize that it was a dream, and once she did, it helped little, since it came with the knowledge that she had left him behind, and if he needed a hand to hold, she wouldn't be there to provide it.

Rumpel will be there, she told herself, and while the thought of her husband churned her stomach in a different ways, she forced herself to think of him, of his love for Bae and how he'd never, ever let him down. They were better off without all the quarrels – without her.

Her head was spinning with middle-of-the-night thoughts, and one made it through in perfect clarity: after all these years scorning her husband, she'd gone and done the same thing, abandoned all duty to save her own miserable life.

Sleep offered little solace after that.

* * *

 

Milah was still tired when she woke up in the morning, but knew that she had to face Killian, the sooner the better. If not to explain, then at least to apologise and find a way forward.

The crew was busy this morning, and she gathered from the things they said that they were approaching Cockaigne and had to stay out of sight from the navy, which confused her, since Cockaigne was at war with Avalon and should have been natural allies, though perhaps pirates had no natural allies.

Because of this, despite her intentions, it took a fair while before she could take Killian aside and tell him, "I'm so sorry for last night."

For a moment, he merely watched her in silence, and then he gave a minute bow.

"You are obviously not under any sort of obligation to me," he said, the flatness of his voice all the more alarming in comparison to his usual flirtations. "I suppose your desire to use any method available to you is... understandable."

"That doesn't make it right," she said. "You'd be at your full right to maroon me at the nearest shore."

At that, he straightened to his full length. "The choice is yours entirety."

So courteous, and so cruel – but any cruelty she received, she'd given in kind, and she didn't respond to it now. "I want to stay," she said honestly, "but only if I can be of some use. Not as a charity case."

His face softened slightly. "I could talk to Starkey. Your art skills could be useful for making charts."

The thought of having to face Starkey's superior airs all day long was less than appealing, but she recognised that he'd offered her a position where she could make a proper difference, rather than be in the way.

"Thank you," she said.

"I think he's doing inventory at the moment. Why don't you go offer your services?"

Since he made no offer to go with her, she made a small curtsey and went off on her own.

The day before she'd only had a chance to see part of the ship, but the cargo hold was easy enough to find, large as it was. Once within it, though, she had to follow the sound of voices around bags, barrels and crates, until she found Starkey in the middle, ordering two junior crewmembers around. He'd made a makeshift desk and chair of two wooden crates, and was writing down numbers that the other two hollered at him.

"Excuse me," she called, "the captain said I should offer my services... for making charts."

Starkey looked over his shoulder at her. "Oh, are you in my charge now?" he asked with a tired sigh. "Well, I'm not making charts at the moment. Is there anything else you can do?" When she hesitated, he asked, "Can you count?"

"Sure," she said, torn between defiance and dejection. Neither seemed a useful response at the moment.

He pointed into one of the aisles. "In there's the salt. Count the salt."

As assignments went, it was easy enough, though not terribly interesting. Milah counted the salt, which ended up being a whole lot more salt than she would have expected, and proceeded on to the tea. There wasn't as much tea as salt, but from what she'd seen of the crew, the amount of tea they drank was none at all. By the time she finished with the vanilla, curiosity got the better of her and she went back to ask Starkey in person.

"We robbed a merchant ships a fortnight ago," he said, somewhat mollified now that she was doing actual work. "Some of the stock we sold in the Enchanted Forest, but we're bringing the rest to Cockaigne. It creates goodwill among the local population and makes it easier to bribe any meddling bailiff or navy captain – we rarely have any trouble with either in Sextiae."

"You deal in spices?" she asked. "I thought you would have been more interested in gold."

"My dear madame, this _is_ gold. What good is money in your pocket if your food rots during the winter? Now, we had three and sixty pounds of salt going into the Enchanted Forest and sold twenty-six of them there, that leaves..."

"Thirty-seven," she said. "You're missing five pounds."

The look he gave her suggested that she'd managed to surprise him. "I'm not missing them," he said. "Cook asked to have them. I think it might be another idea to keep another five for her. We don't know when we'll find spices again." He made a note of it in small, round handwriting and went back to scrutinizing her. "You're quick. Can you write?"

"A little bit," she said. Writing had never been a top priority at home, but she still remembered some of what she'd learned in her younger years. "I used to be a shop girl."

"So you can do sums."

"Yes."

"Excellent." He moved aside and pushed the book in her direction. "Double-check these, spare me the trouble."

She did so, using her rusty arithmetics skills, and got a nod of approval from Starkey on her numbers, but a mournful shake of the head on her handwriting. When he was satisfied, he sent her out to count some more items, and then come back for a double-check of those. It was remarkably similar to being a shopgirl, which wasn't something she ever would have expected of piracy.

After the dinner break, they kept at it, and then had a few hours to spare before the Jolly Roger would sail into port and it was time to discharge.

"You did well, madame," Starkey said as he closed his book and the other two moved his makeshift desk aside. "Especially considering those horrid affairs on your feet."

Milah had to admit that the judgement was accurate. Even in calm sea, the ship moved enough to make walking in clogs precarious, and when it came to climbing up to count crates and bags, she'd had to kick them aside.

"There were no boots my size," she said.

"That can be remedied. Do you speak Cockaignese?"

She shook her head. There had been little reason to learn any foreign languages back home – she had nowhere to go, and any strangers passing by were most often from further into the Enchanted Forest. Sometimes there was a visitor from Avalon, but Cockaigne was on the other side of ogre territories and the war.

"Then allow me to escort you to the shoemaker."

"Oh," she said, nonplussed, and then it sank in that she was only hours away from setting foot on foreign shore, from a pirate ship no less, and the first thing she'd do would be to see a _shoemaker_. She chuckled. "I'd be delighted."

* * *

 

Language aside, Cockaigne turned out to be not all that different from the Enchanted Forest. True, Sextiae was larger than her own village, but she'd been to town a few times as a child and recognised the bustling crowd. It wasn't a disappointment, as such – it was still a _new_ crowd, with new people who smiled at her and tried to sell her goods, honing in on the naïve visitor who might have money and could be tricked into spending it. She could see the exploitative glint in their eyes and laughed, because she might be an outsider but she was no longer a pariah.

Starkey put her hand firmly in the crook of his elbow and led her through. There was a decidedly avuncular tone to his attitude towards her, which was rather amusing since he must be less than a decade older than her. Nevertheless it inspired her trust, and she let him set the pace, right up to the point where she saw a multicoloured glimmer by the horizon.

"What's that?" she asked, nodding in the direction.

"Glass Hill."

A long time ago, when she was a girl, Milah had heard a minstrel sing of the Princess of Glass Hill and the Ashen Boy that won her apples and her heart. She turned immediately and hurried her steps, because this was much more important than any boots.

"You don't want to wait with this until we've seen the shoemaker?" Starkey asked. "No, of course not."

They walked briskly through the streets and alleys, and Milah no longer had eyes for anything that went on around her, just the glimmering view ahead. At last they rounded a corner and stood at the foot of the mountain, the rainbow colours broken down into panes, clear ones in front and behind those pink, purple, yellow, blue and any other colour, all set in metal frames.

"Is it all glass?" she asked breathlessly, trying to calculate the cost and effort it would take to create something like that.

"Semi-precious stones," Starkey said. "More durable. More expensive too – but I suppose if you're a witch as well as a countess, you can afford it."

"A witch?" she asked. Looking closer, she could see the cracks and shadings in the stone, but that only served to make the effect more beautiful. "I thought it belonged to a princess."

"It's a school, for high-bred ladies. Very strict, only lets the girls down for holiday celebrations, and doesn't let anyone up." He threw her a glance and added, drily, "In theory."

"I heard something about apples...?" she prompted.

"Ah, yes, the Lady Amelle. It happens from time to time, a girl manages to get around the supervision to encounter some young man and inform him of the way up. Then they elope, and the families draw the conclusion that someone who can scale Glass Hill must by definition be worthy. Of course, usually it's a prince, or duke, or someone like that. Not a farmboy."

She laughed and shook her head. "Clever. How do they get groceries, though?"

"Levitated through witchcraft. Are you done looking? If you want the boots done we'd better get started early."

"Just give me a moment," she pleaded, and he did.

She would have given a great deal to have coal and paper at hand, but of course she had nothing to give and boots were more important anyway, so she settled for imprinting the mountain onto her memory as well as she could, before coming along to the shoemaker.

There was a mother with a young child being equipped before them at the shoemaker's. The child was only two or three at the most, of indeterminable sex, with shaggy dark hair and a slight pout that suggested this was not a favourite pastime. Milah had to look away, eyes burning.

The measurement of her feet, once it was their turn, proved no trouble, but haggling took some time. The boots would have to be finished before they were ready to set sail again, so Starkey paid extra in order to be bumped up the waiting list, and then extra again for highest quality craftsmanship and leather, and by then the price was so ridiculous that Milah had to protest. Her feet were not an unusual size – she could see standard lasts by the wall that would do quite nicely. She did not require finest leather, as long as it was sturdy and would last the rough seas. They could wait two days, but no longer, and the price would have to be halved.

The shoemaker explained, in Starkey's translation, that in such short time and for that price they would require a witch.

"Perhaps we do," she said. "Mr. Starkey, do you know where to find a witch?"

When it became clear to the shoemaker that they were actually considering employing a witch's services instead, he hastily amended his price with five silver and lamented that he would have to take help from his apprentice, who was nowhere near fully trained, and that the quality would suffer.

"It will do," Milah said. "Maybe next time we'll get an extra pair for the holidays."

Starkey was not expressive by nature, but his lips curled as they left the place.

"You got a good price," he told her, "but I fear you'll be getting farmer's boots."

"Nothing wrong with farmer's boots," she said. "We don't have the time to wait for calfskin and ornamentation, and I'm not about to let you spend any more of your money than necessary. You've already done enough for me. I don't suppose there's enough time for a dress?"

"Unfortunately, no," he said. "But you're welcome to that shirt as long as you need it."

She felt a blush creep up her cheeks. "Thank you. I do wish I'd given myself time to pack, but truth be told, I hadn't planned to leave. I just... rushed off."

"That would explain why your husband..." Starkey began, and then quietened with a cough, searching his pockets for tobacco.

She stopped short. "Why my husband what?"

Starkey found the tobacco pouch and proceeded to stuff his pipe.

"Mr. Starkey, what do you know of my husband, considering the fact that I can recall no time that the two of you met?"

"He came to the ship," Starkey said reluctantly. "He thought we had taken you by force. The captain challenged him to a duel and then he left."

Abduction. As an excuse, it had its fine points – if that story spread, she'd be considered blameless, though she doubted anyone who had seen her at the inn would believe it. Any positive sides were drowned out by anger when she realised why she'd been kept under deck when she'd first come on board, and what had been going on over her head.

"Where's the captain now?" she asked, and when she didn't get a reply right away, "Starkey, where's Killian?"

"He has a meeting with some local smugglers. They'll be back at the ship."

Milah didn't bother waiting for Starkey. She turned and ran towards the ship, tripping twice before she decided to just kick off her clogs and keep going. The crowd still pushed and called out, but she paid them no mind. Only when she reached the ship did she slow down, smoothing her hair before she marched up there.

Killian was standing on deck with two strangers she presumed were the smugglers, and he looked bewildered upon seeing her. "Milah, what...?"

"Are you proud of yourself?" she shouted. "Fighting a cripple, is that your idea of a good time?"

His eyebrows shot up, then lowered as he grasped her meaning. "Is this about your husband?"

"Of course it's about my husband, you oaf! Why didn't you just tell me he was here?"

"Gentlemen, if you'll give us a moment," he said, then led her aside, hand firm but not forceful around her arm. "I was under impression that you did not wish to speak to him," he told her in a low voice. "Why else wouldn't you do so before you came on board?"

He had her there – a part of her was pathetically grateful that she hadn't been asked to confront Rumpelstiltskin herself. At the same time, Killian had made her unwittingly complicit in his sordid deception, and that didn't make her feel much better.

"So you just beat him instead?" she asked.

"I didn't touch the man," he said with scorn. "I threw him a sword and said... well, I implied that you'd be passed around the crew. He refused to take the challenge, unless you call blubbering a reply. So in the end, I kicked him off the ship. He's every bit the coward you said he is, that one."

There was a nasty turn to his smirk, a side of him she didn't like, but oh, she could see the scene play out, Killian making a mockery, while Rumpel slunk away – that miserable little _mouse_ – and all the crew there to watch. To know that even if he'd believed her enslaved and about to be raped by pirates, her husband would do nothing to help. So much for his insistence that he'd malingered himself for her sake.

"He couldn't have beaten you," she said, attempting to be fair. "And you had the whole crew with you. What would you have him do?"

" _Try_ ," he said. "Or failing that, at least run for help. It's not honourable, but at least it would get the job done."

"An angry mob," she said slowly as she remembered the way he has delayed the ship's departure. She shook her head, dismissing the notion. "No-one would have come for me."

"No-one would have come to rescue you from being abused by a shipful of pirates?" His features twisted in disgust. "What the bloody hell kind of village did you live in?"

There was no reply to that, and she bit her lip, humiliated by the simple truth.

"Milah," he said, sounding softer than he'd had since their disastrous time in his cabin. "I don't blame you for doing whatever you had to, to get away. I just..." He swallowed. "I wish you hadn't lied to me."

"I didn't lie," she said, and when he started to speak, broke him off: "I didn't. You're beautiful, and if things were different... but I only just left." The last word could barely be heard over the tears in her voice.

"There's no hurry," he said. "Gods, I would have been willing to wait, but you seemed so eager."

"Because I'm in your debt," she said. "I thought I could do it out of gratitude, but I can't. And the truth is, if I let myself feel what I'm feeling, I'd be entirely at your mercy, and would have nothing to protect me if things go wrong. Which they could."

She could see him wanting to protest that nothing would go wrong, and hoped he wouldn't, because then she'd have to admit how wrong things had gone before, and why she couldn't place all of her trust in him.

"Bloody hell," he said helplessly, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't want you to feel that you're in my debt."

"I am, though," she said. "And wishing doesn't change that. I'd feel a lot safer if I could merely be a pirate."

"Then be a pirate," he said, hesitating for a moment before stroking her cheek, as if the touch itself might be too much. "Not a word from me to suggest anything more, I promise. Starkey seems happy enough with your work." A smile spread over his face, but didn't reach his eyes. "In fact, seeing how he's carrying your shoes for you, he must find you valuable indeed."

Milah turned and saw Starkey, deep in conversation with the smugglers. In his right hand, he held both of her clogs.

"Oh," she said, feeling foolish.

"Must have made quite an impression," Killian mumbled. His grin almost seemed genuine at this point. "Listen, lass, this is your home as long as you want it to be. After all, you can't leave before you've seen Atlantis."

"No," she said, giving him a brittle smile back. "I can't, can I?"


	5. Chapter 5

When they sailed from Cockaigne a few days later, Milah had a pair of perfectly adequate new boots and time to think. Working for Starkey suited her well, and if that was to be her main duty, she didn't mind, but the Jolly _was_ a pirate ship. Sooner or later they'd attack somebody, and when they did, she'd prefer it if she weren't a complete liability. She suspected that in such an event, Killian planned to keep her below deck – again. Well, if that was the best place for her, so be it, but she wouldn't allow it to be a foregone conclusion.

Approaching Starkey about the issue would feel absurd. She had no doubt that he was a competent pirate, but seeing him with his books and charts, it was hard to imagine it. Her first idea was to ask Teynte, but a half-grown girl was not the most impressive teacher of battle skills, dagger or no dagger.

Mason was the obvious next choice, and so she waited until he had some time of rest and asked him to teach her how to fight.

He frowned deep enough that his eyebrow brushed the eyepatch and asked, "What, for plundering and like?"

"Yes," she said, and when the scepticism did not disappear from his face, "Teynte goes plundering, doesn't she? And she's smaller than me."

"Yuh, that she does," he admitted, giving her such a scrutinizing gaze that she uncomfortably recalled that in addition to being smaller, Teynte was also younger, stronger, and more experienced. Just as Milah was ready to crawl out of her skin, Mason continued, "I suppose I've dealt with worse. I'll get you a sword."

"What, now?" she said, all the arguments she'd started to gather in her mind suddenly unnecessary. "A real one?"

"We don't have fake ones," he said. "Unless you want to fight with a mop."

"A sword is fine," she said.

He lumbered off to get them, and she tried to maintain a nonchalant stance, as if their conversation had been about nothing in particular. Rather pointless, really, since anyone on deck would be able to see their training session. Maybe she should have waited until the next time they got to shore, but that could be weeks, for all she knew. They were headed for Atlantis now, and she'd been told of no stops along the way.

It didn't take him long to come back with a pair of swords – not the long broadswords she was used to from the soldiers back home, but a shorter, slightly curved kind.

"Right then," he said, tossing her one of them.

That was the only introduction. She found herself struggling to find a good grip, accompanied with comments just as terse as his first one:

"No, not like _that_ ," he'd say. "Like _this_." After a couple of rounds of that, he specified with, "Ease the grip. Not that much!"

There was no real malice in the way the orders were barked out, but they confused her nonetheless, and she started to wish that he could have been just a smidgen more eloquent.

After a while he nodded and proceeded to criticize the way she stood, which she took to imply that her grip on the sword was now somewhat acceptable. By the time he had proceeded to actually attacking her, the crew had caught on to what were happening and were craning their necks.

Teynte was the first one to actually run over, like a little curious squirrel complete with glittering dark eyes. All she needed was a fluffy tail; instead she'd have to do with the riggings she leaned up against.

"Parry like this," Mason instructed, and gave an appreciate grunt at her effort. Teynte, however, snorted in laughter.

"Don't laugh," Milah complained.

"Sorry," Teynte said in an utterly unapologetic way. "It's just... you're trying to look like him, and it doesn't really work, because you don't look like him."

Mason gave Milah a long, thoughtful look. "Got a point there. You won't scare anyone."

"Maybe not yet," she admitted, "but when I get the hang of this, I bet I can make them."

"Not like she means," he said decidedly. "You can't scare them off you."

"Well, that can't be necessary." She turned to Teynte. "You fight, and you're not very intimidating."

"And that suits me just fine," Teynte said with a grin. "Makes it more of a surprise when I stab them in the guts."

"Right," Mason said slowly, and then nodded at Milah. "Go with that."

"Make them underestimate me?"

"Yuh."

"Make yourself smaller," Teynte said. "More pitiful."

"Like your husband," Mason said, causing Teynte to laugh again.

"It's not funny!" Milah protested, but she did her best to comply. Emulating Rumpelstiltskin was too nasty for her to try, after what she'd put him through, but she let her shoulders droop and her gaze flicker, knees rubbing against each other.

"Hm." Teynte scratched her neck. "Not the best actress, are you? Maybe you should show some bosom. That ought to distract anyone."

"Enough of that," Mason grumbled, before ordering Milah, "Little and lost. Good. Now kill me."

She shifted, as ordered, from the frail stance she'd taken on to a position of attack, and the sword was promptly blocked.

"Again," Mason ordered.

At this point, Cecco was sauntering towards them, with an air of pretended indifference, which made it easier for Milah to cringe in shame, but harder to find the proper ferocity for her attack. Having Mason and Teynte criticize her wasn't so bad, but Cecco was just as handsome as his captain and twice as arrogant, and his amused gaze was hard to take – especially at it was followed by half-suppressed laughter at her inexpert attack.

"Again."

She was only too happy to follow the order and push her sword forward, mind focused on getting every single thing right that she'd been taught. It didn't stop Mason from parrying with ease, with a force that slammed the sword out of her hand and onto the deck.

"Not bad," he said with a grin. "I'm still alive, though. Again."

She did pick the sword back up, but only to hand it to him. "This was a bad idea."

Teynte protested, and Milah could hear some calls of disappointment from the other crewmen as well at being deprived of their entertainment, but she didn't care. Her first thought was to seek up her old corner of the deck to sit in, but there were people all over today, up in the rigging and all, so instead she went down to the cabin.

As it turned out, there were already people down there, with Bilal stretched out shirtless on his bunk while Mullins and Soeng were kneading his back. He didn't seem injured, but their demeanour was too matter-of-fact for anything more intimate. Despite her mortification, Milah stopped in the doorway, fascinated.

"What on earth are you doing?" she asked.

"Medical training," Mullins said, pressing his thumbs down. "How do you feel?"

"Relaxed," Bilal said with a yawn.

"Seems I'm getting the hang of it. That's a hell of a method you've got there, Soeng."

"The experts do it with needles," Soeng said.

"You're expert enough for me. Care to take over my job?"

"Anyone tries to stick needles in me," Bilal said, his voice muffled by the bunk, "I'll shove them down his throat."

Soeng laughed. "You heard the man. I wouldn't dare come near him with a needle. Not to mention open surgery."

"That's awfully squeamish for a pirate." Mullins proceeded further down, and Milah shifted slightly in the doorway.

"Well, when I cut someone open, I like to _leave_ afterwards. Not poke around in there and see what I find."

They all laughed at that, even Milah, who remained fixed at her spot until a thin hand landed on her shoulder. She turned to see Teynte, who gave her a sympathetic grimace.

Preferring not to have this conversation, whatever it would be, around the others, Milah stepped out and closed the door behind them.

"Listen, about up there," she started.

"You are much too fond of your dignity," Teynte said.

That statement was horribly ironic. Milah sighed and rubbed her forehead. "I don't _have_ any dignity. And I'm sick of it."

"Well, you're not going to get any here," Teynte said. "We're on a ship. Haven't you noticed? One week here and I bet you know already who snores, or farts, or picks their nose, and you and I are the only ones who don't have to show ourselves naked. Well, apart from the captain, and I get to see him naked, so..."

That thought was temporarily distracting and quite a bit unsettling. "You see the captain naked?"

"He's got nothing I haven't seen and nothing I care about seeing," Teynte said, waving it away. "Point is, you can't escape from people and sometimes they're going to be tools."

"So you're telling me to get back up there and try again?" Milah asked.

"Nah. Mason's putting the swords away. He said to tell you you'll be trying again during dinnertime and take the meal an hour later. That way, you get to do it in peace without any meddling asses gawking at you. I think he meant me as well. Unless you want me there?" she finished expectantly.

"No. Sorry, no."

This new arrangement of Mason's was so thoughtful, though, that it gave Milah a lighter heart the rest of the morning.

* * *

When dinner came, Milah slipped away to try fighting again, with some privacy this time.

There was a man up in the riggings, one steering, and two minding the cannons. Milah registered all of them, the way their faces were turned towards the sea or bent over the work, and how much fewer of them there were than before. Then her shoulders lowered slowly and she accepted the sword.

"Ready to go?" Mason asked, lifting his own sword in position but making no move to attack.

She nodded and hesitated for a moment before getting her back curled in a suitably subservient position, toes scraping the deck. Counting the seconds she had to hold the pose, she then attacked, and Mason slammed her sword aside.

After two more attempts, he grumbled, "Teynte's right, you're not a good actress. Forget that stuff, just fight."

That meant she could take all that attention she'd spent on making her body smaller, and use it for actual fighting. The attacks didn't take as long to prepare, and though Mason still stood with both feet firmly on the ground and swatted her sword away, after a while he started counter-attacking, forcing her to parry. When she flubbed the defence the tip of his sword stopped inches away from her skin.

"Keep your guard up," he grumbled.

"I'm... tired..."

"You'll be more tired than this. Keep it up. And don't just hack at me." As he spoke, he caught the edge of her sword against his and let it slide off. "You got to think, use the weaknesses."

"Weaknesses, huh?" She moved aside and aimed her sword at the blind spot on his far right, but he shifted in that direction and parried, movements as fluid as before.

"Not the obvious ones they already know about," he said. "The small ones."

She shifted her blade low, beneath the torso, and his mouth quirked up as he parried.

"We all defend _that_. And it's not small. Or weak."

That sounded like something the captain could have said. Milah's arm wobbled a little, and she took a couple of steps back, lowering her sword. "Well, I'm going to have to think about some weaknesses of yours, then."

"Won't have time to think in a real fight," he said, but he stopped the training and picked up his flask, while she rubbed her back against the gunwale to get rid of the sweat.

As he handed her the flask as well, she braced for the taste of rum but instead got just the slight hint of vinegar she'd tasted at every meal from the water.

"Thank you," she said. "For all of it. You've been nice to me ever since that first day, and I haven't really done anything to deserve it."

"You made him smile", Mason said.

It took a moment, then she tentatively asked, "The captain?"

"Yuh. Real smiles, all over his face."

Coaxing a smile out of Killian had never seemed all that difficult, at least not before these past few days, where he'd walked around with his face all double-buttoned like a waistcoat. If that was his default state, perhaps Mason had a point – but that also made her frown before she reminded him:

"I haven't lately."

"You will. It wasn't all about bedding you."

She gave him a quick glance and asked, "Do you know him well?"

That made him frown and scratch his head under the kerchief. "No better than the others, I suppose. Not now that he's grown up."

It took her a moment to grasp his meaning. "You knew him as a child?"

"I worked for his old man a couple of times."

The notion of Killian as a little boy was new to her, and she imagined his features more delicate, with rounded cheeks and blue eyes larger under dark hair, hand in his father's... but the shape and hand became Bae's, and she swallowed hard.

"What was he like?"

"The captain or his old man?"

"Either."

"Well... Jim Newport was the slyest old bastard I ever knew. Generous with the money, but if you weren't looking he'd take it all back – or stab you _in_ the back for it, for that matter. The women loved him, though. That's how he did most of his work, hanging around ladies of the finer sets."

"What kind of work was that?" she asked. She recalled Killian on that first day, legs stretched out, the things he'd said and the jut of his chin.

"Never asked, but I got the impression he was selling secrets. Either blackmail or proper spying, you know? Bonnie Jim, they called him, and sometimes the lad was Little Jim, but he didn't like that much. Offended his wee dignity, it did. One lady got in the habit of calling him 'kitten'. I thought his head would blow, but Jim kept him in line and made sure he didn't say nothing."

"Kitten," Milah said, all melancholy forgotten, because she knew there wasn't a young boy _alive_ who'd tolerate that.

"Kit, he went by back then," Mason explained. "Kit Newport."

"Is that his real name? Not Jones at all?"

Mason chewed on his lip. "Don't know. The Navy lads say they travelled with his brother, and that he was a Captain Jones too. So maybe Newport was the false name. Wouldn't surprise me, with the way those two were living."

Milah sat silent for a while, conjuring up the image of Killian as a child and trying to make it fit with the knowledge she had of him in present time. It didn't take a genius to see where he got the flirtation and the arrogance, though his feelings seemed to run deeper – or so she hoped. Still, there seemed to be something missing. Somehow she'd imagined his background as more polished, though maybe it was just inference from his accent... but no, it was more than that. There was the question of how he had made his way into the Navy, and not only that, but made Navy men like Starkey trust him enough to become pirates for him.

"Wasn't the only thing different about him when he came back," Mason said, echoing Milah's thoughts. "All poshed up and gentleman-like, took me a while to believe it was the same bloke. He's harder, though, under it all. He was always such a cheerful little bugger, but now... I guess it happens to everyone, sooner or later. Life has a way of getting to you. Damn pity."

He shook his head, face even grimmer than usual, lamenting a loss of innocence that it was near impossible for Milah to imagine he'd ever had himself.

"What about his father? What happened to him?"

"Wouldn't know. Just stopped hiring me." Mason breathed out slowly between his teeth and rolled his shoulders before standing up again. "All right, break's over. Have you thought of any weaknesses yet?"

Small children, she thought, but she knew better than to say it out loud. Anyway, that wasn't a weakness she knew how to use.

* * *

Since Mason's information had a fifteen-year gap, Milah figured that her best chance to learn more was through Starkey, but when she turned to him with her questions, he stared into empty space before asking:

"Have you spoken to the Captain about this?"

"Well, no," she admitted. "I thought..." She trailed off, trying to think of a good way to phrase it.

"I think you should," Starkey said. "I wouldn't want to share any of his personal details."

Milah felt her ears heat, and her gaze flickered down for a moment before she decided to try a different approach. "What about you?" she asked. "What made you want to be a pirate?"

He gave her a far too perceptive smile. "We had a disagreement with the Crown. Of a moral nature."

"Whose morals, yours or theirs?"

"I hope my morals are always impeccable," he said drily, but with the smile still lingering around his eyes.

That was all she could get from him, and Teynte, while more ready to talk, knew even less. The Jolly Roger had already been a pirate ship when she came on board, and she cared little of what had happened before.

Milah supposed she would have been equally unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth if the captain had been anyone but Killian. Even with this distance between them, he was an itch at the back of her head that wouldn't go away. She could put her mind to her work and try to ignore anything outside of it, but as soon as anyone so much as mentioned the captain the ache started right up again. At least it was more bearable than the sharp pain of her son, which had fewer things to remind her but still flared up like a broken tooth almost daily.

Unfavourable winds made their journey slow and anything but straight, just empty waters and routine chores that left far too much time to think between her sword practice. Teynte tried to comfort her:

"We're entering a trade route, there are bound to be some ships soon. Then you'll get your first plunder! And after that, it's not far to Atlantis. Best place in the world!"

"Is that where you're from?" Milah asked. Teynte was dark enough to be Atlantean for sure, though the vague trace of an accent in her Avalonian was hard to trace.

"Thule," Teynte replied, with a curt shake of her head.

" _Thule!?_ " Milah's theories came to a crashing halt, because according to common tales, Thule was supposed to be a land of tall, willowy blondes, not unlike what Cook must have looked like thirty years and a hundred and thirty pounds ago.

Teynte got the same dour expression as she'd sported back when her sex was in question, and Milah scrambled for an apology. In the end, Teynte relented and smiled.

"My father was a Wakandan sailor, or so I'm told. Never met him."

"Would you want to?" Milah asked cautiously, in case it was a sore issue.

Teynte shrugged. "Don't know, not really. Though when I first started sailing, I'd look for his ship in all the harbours, just out of curiosity. The Edwige, it was called. Never found it."

"So that's why your na..." Milah started, then bit her lip. She'd read the crew listing as she first started working, trying to learn everyone's names by heart, and first names had been listed along with the last. No one seemed to use Teynte's, though, and she didn't want to offend again.

Teynte grimaced. "You know about that, huh? It was a great relief, I can tell you, getting here and having people call me by my last name."

Milah meant to protest that there was nothing wrong with the name Edwige, that it was a good solid name – but solidity was not much of a recommendation where a young girl was concerned, and even less so for a pirate. She swallowed the comment and asked instead, "What is Thule like?"

"Cold," Teynte said, her arms tensing up at the memory. "Pretty in the summer, which lasts about two weeks. You'll probably get there sooner or later on a supply run. It's not allied with Avalon or Cockaigne, so we haven't been attacking them."

"Why do you attack both sides of the war anyway?"

"As I understand it, the Captain and the old navy lads have some grudge against Avalon, so they want to bungle up their war effort, except most of them are _from_ Avalon, so they don't want to give Cockaigne any sort of advantage. That makes it a sort of double privateering business, and what with allies on both sides, a damned lucrative one." She laughed at Milah's expression. "As long as I get paid, I don't care."

There was no particular reason why Milah should care, either. The Enchanted Forest usually sided with Avalon in wars, thanks to their common tongue, but with the ogre war going on, there were simply no resources to spare for any other battles, and alliances had proven frail at best. She had accepted the notion of piracy without asking for its aim; that it should strike twofold was none of her business. Still, it was a peculiar way of running things.

"I suppose I'll get to see it first hand soon enough."

"I hope so," Teynte said. "I'm almost out of money, and I want to buy a bath once we get to Atlantis."

That seemed an unusually frivolous way to spend money. "You could just bathe by the ship, once we've docked."

"I mean a _real_ bath," Teynte said. She smiled, slowly, her eyes half-closed. "With all the luxuries. You haven't lived until you've taken an Atlantean bath. Oh, just you wait, you're going to love that place so much!"

* * *

Teynte's enthusiasm cheered Milah, and even more so the winds changing a couple of days later, so that they could pick up speed. An attack seemed imminent, and the thought gave her butterflies in her stomach, as she watched the sea and waited for any ship to come in sight.

One morning she woke, and the sensation in her stomach was not so much butterflies as a churning pain, and she curled up, cursing herself for forgetting to count the days.

"Teynte," she hissed, low enough that the others shouldn't hear her. When she got no reply, she sat up, with some caution, but so far her bunk was still dry. "Teynte! What do you use for bleedings around here?"

"Huh?" came a sleepy voice from above. "What bleeding?"

It was of course possible that Teynte had not yet experienced her first bleeding – but then the mumbled question was replaced by a whip-clear "shit!" Two feet made an appearance over the edge of the bunk.

Teynte swung down and landed with a thump inside, still repeating "shit" under her breath.

"I'm so sorry," she said, eyes wide. "I plain forgot about all that. Here's the thing, cook has a potion to prevent it, but you have to start taking it _between_ bleedings, so if you're having your monthly already it's too late for this month."

"I'm not bleeding yet," Milah said, shifting in the bed to make sure that was true, "but I think I'm about to. Aren't there any rags or something?"

She longed to have a box of sheep's wool that she could just stick her hand into and take out a wad to wrap in cloth, like every month before, but Teynte looked dubious enough at the mention of rags that Milah suspected that she'd have to settle for dirty dishrags from the galley, or nothing at all.

From the other side of the headboard, Bilal said, "We got two bales of cotton left from the _Lady of Sunlight_ that we're meant to sell in Atlantis."

Milah winced at their conversation being overheard, but cotton sounded promising – if a rather expensive commodity to bleed upon. "Can I?" she asked.

Teynte shrugged. "I guess you could ask Starkey."

Bringing Starkey into this affair of women's troubles was less than appealing, but since she had little choice in the matter, she dressed quickly and walked with tight steps to his cabin.

Starkey recently awoken was more dishevelled than she would have imagined him, which was still not very – just wearing a wrinkled shirt and hastily put on pantaloons, his beard a smidgen longer than usual. He listened in sympathetic silence to her whispered request, but in the end only referred the decision on to the captain.

At that point, Milah was tempted to just go for the dish rags, but she could feel the first trickle come down the inside of her aching thigh, and the captain's cabin was closer than the mess. In the end, she sucked it up and knocked on his door.

Killian seemed more taken aback at her request than Starkey had been, but he readily agreed. "Of course. Take anything you need. Shall you require both bales?"

In a different situation, she might have laughed. "No – no, that won't be necessary. Only about this much, for the week."

She measured with her hands, and his face took on an expression of great relief.

"Oh, no more than that? Go ahead. We won't miss it."

With that blessing, the immediate practical problem was solved, as Milah dug out a suitable amount of cotton and returned to her bunk to press a fair wad of it against her nether regions. There were no strips of fabric to secure it to her belt, so when she left her cabin again she had to keep her thighs pressed together to keep the wad in place.

At home, the cramps had usually been manageable enough to let her keep working, but whether it was the forced uncomfortable position, or the motions of the ship, she was in the middle of mending sails when her stomach heaved and she had to get up on deck as fast as she could before throwing up. It was worse than that first, hungover day, and she braced herself against the gunwale with shivering arms, wanting nothing more than to crawl into her bunk, except there were no chamber pots on a ship and she'd have to get back up to empty her stomach again.

In the end, she remained where she was for most of the day, only going back down to get more cotton, and then to the hole in the fore to toss out the old wad. The men passing her by gave her pitying glances, which made her hunch down even further. A few had looks of distaste or exasperation, and in a strange way that felt better, that there was an end to the patience they'd had with her.

Killian came by and hovered helplessly for a minute before going away. A short while later, he returned with two thin strips of woven cloth, each with a wooden bead at the middle.

"Here," he said, sitting down on his heels to take her hand. "Wear these."

"What are they?" she asked, trying her best to pat down her hair and wipe her face.

"Beginner's bracelets. They're meant for seasickness, but maybe they'll help for this too."

As she let him tie the first bracelet around her wrist, her other hand automatically reached out for his face, so soft in concentration. Luckily, she caught herself in time and clenched her fist under her skirt. Since it didn't take him long to finish his task, she had to unclench it again in order to let him put the other bracelet on.

"Are they magic?" she asked.

"Soeng and Mullins both say no, and they ought to know. Apparently it just squeezes the right points somehow. I haven't the faintest idea how it works, but it does." He finished up and patted her wrists before looking up. "There. All done."

Quickly, she put her expression in check. "Thank you. You could have just sent Teynte."

"She's working. I, at the moment, am not." He frowned slightly. "Do you mind that it's me?"

"Of course not," she said, because she had missed this, speaking with him with no awkwardness – or, well, only very little awkwardness. She watched the way his hair fell across his forehead and wished that she could rid herself of all these bitter suspicions. That he could have been her first love.

But that was absurd, because when she was a young woman of seventeen, he would have been a child of Bae's age.

The thought tightened her chest, and she snatched her hands back. "It's most gracious of you, Captain."

Her tone was cold enough to made his face cloud over, and as he rose to his feet he muttered, "It's like petting a bloody hedgehog."

Possibly, she wasn't meant to hear it. Probably she was, and she felt her cheeks flush.

"I must be such a disappointment to you."

"I've had worse." He sighed. "I admit this isn't what I hoped for."

It wasn't what she had hoped for either, but she couldn't say that, or even properly apologise, without making promises that she might not be able to live up to. "I know."

"Well," he said, brushing his hands against his breeches, too lightly to be called a wipe, and yet she got the notion that he was ridding himself of her. "Get well soon. Starkey misses you down there."

She supposed being useful for her arithmetics skills would have to suffice.


	6. Chapter 6

On the third day of Milah's bleeding, when she was feeling well enough to help clean the cannons, Ryan called down: "Everyone get ready, ship ahead!"

"Are you done?" Murphy asked her, and when she nodded, "Just in the nick of time, then. Get up on deck, I'll man this beauty."

Not knowing what else to do, Milah followed the crewmembers going for their weapons. All she had in that respect was the sword she'd been using for practice, and that was in Mason's possession. She headed for his cabin and met him on the way, the extra sword already tucked in under his arm.

"Oh, there you are," he said, tossing her the sword. "You coming along?"

"Wouldn't miss it," she said, because she might be untrained and sore, but this was her first pirate attack and she wasn't about to sit it out. "What do I do?"

"Stick with me," he said, "don't raise your sword until you're prepared to fight, and then fight like your life depends on it. Which it will."

He sounded so unperturbed about the idea that it had a calming influence, and she followed onto the deck, where those of the crew not manning the cannons were gathering up. Most of them were now wearing eyepatches similar to Mason's, giving them an eerie and rather threatening demeanour. Perhaps that was the point.

"Should I be wearing an eyepatch?" she asked.

"Not this round. You're staying on deck with me." When he saw that she didn't understand, he explained further: "They shift them over when they get below deck on the enemy ship. That way, one eye is prepared for the darkness and looting goes quicker."

That made sense, and it obviously wasn't an option for him. He seemed to take for granted that she'd stay with him, and she didn't mind – for her first fight, it was better not to be stuck in closed quarters without her teacher at hand.

The black flag had been hoisted, though as of yet no shots were fired. Milah licked her lips and looked around. There were Teynte and Starkey, both with eyepatches. Bilal went without, as did Ryan – and Killian, whose uncovered blue eye gave her a wink when he caught her gaze. The impending attack seemed to have him in a good mood, and she grinned back.

The other ship was trying to steer away, but the Jolly Roger was faster and quickly catching up. By now, she could spot not only the white sails, but also their flag with the red smudge that must be the Avalonian griffin.

The distance quickly closed, and the first cannon shots boomed from below. Mason stepped in front of Milah, which prevented her from seeing much of what was going on and made her feel like some dainty little thing in need of protection. A sharp comment was ready on her lips, until cannons boomed again and the Roger shook from the impact.

The crew seemed to take it as a natural thing, though Teynte dove back after a moment, face bleeding, and asked, "Can I have your kerchief?"

Mason grunted and took it off his head, handing it over to her.

"Are you all right?" Milah asked.

"Just some splinters from the gunwale."

"Throw an arm up next time," Mason adviced her. "Better some skin than an eye."

"Guess you ought to know." Teynte grinned and moved forward again, soon disappearing from view.

Milah didn't see how the ships hooked together, but she did follow the crew forward and was given a rope to swing over to the other deck. By now, her hands were sweaty enough that she had to wrap the rope an extra time around them to stay in place, but she did make it across, and drew her sword the second her hand was free again.

Once the close combat started, the nervous dread she'd felt disappeared. She had a job to do, and in order to perform properly, fears and other emotions would have to stand aside. Mason was on one side of her, Killian only a few yards away, and all around her the crew she had lived with for the past weeks. Their presence calmed her, though she could not spare much attention to what they were doing.

A midshipman had been pushed in front of her, and she attacked without bothering with any kind of pretense. She had a good two inches on him, and yet at first his parries were semi-relaxed, a smirk visible behind his scraggly beard, revealing that he did not think her a proper opponent. Well, his folly was not her problem, and she stuck to what she knew, no flourishes, straightforward moves, trying to find a weak spot.

As it dawned on the sailor that the danger was real, his muscles tensed and his attacks intensified. He drove her back a few feet, but even at his best, that was as far as he could take her.

She could _beat_ him. Refusing to let herself slacken with that knowledge, she pushed forward, forcing his retreat, and... dear gods, despite the pickle he was in, he still couldn't keep his eyes off her chest. Talk about a weak spot.

Using one of the tricks she'd learned, she twisted his sword away and was slightly surprised to see it clatter to the deck – though not nearly as surprised as he seemed to be, eyes wide and weak jaw hanging open.

She could have gone in for the kill, but hesitated for a moment. He hurried to throw his hands up. "I surrender!"

Even that, he said to her bosom rather than her face. His vague smirk that suggested he still couldn't seriously consider the threat to his life.

"No surrender," she said, raising her sword, only to have it blocked with a blade coming from her side.

"None of that. Put him with the others," Mason said, tutting her slightly before he let go.

Looking around her, she was surprised to see that while there were dead bodies on the deck, they were a lot fewer than she would have expected. The survivors were rather calmly being rounded up on the foredeck. In the pirate stories she'd been told as a child, the pirates would always either kill their enemies outright or make them walk the plank. Here, no plank was provided. Some of the pirates headed down below deck for looting, and a couple had climbed the masts and were slashing the sails, but the rest guarded the navy crew without much hostility.

Killian strode up to them and started speaking, chest out and head thrown back.

"I am Captain Jones of the Jolly Roger," he called, "and you, my friends, are in luck."

Half-consciously, Milah drew closer to see his face as he spoke. On her way, she had to move aside to avoid stepping on the corpse of a Navy man, eyes staring blindly over a throat that had been hacked almost all the way through. It should have been sickening, but she had seen so little of him in life, his dead body barely seemed real. Even mere minutes after death, the lack of life was as obvious as those people she had seen later in death, at funerals. Maybe a dead body was never quite real, and only the life remembered made it so. Still, it made her grateful that Mason had interrupted her attempted kill. Maybe next time, she'd feel more ready to deal with having pushed someone over that edge of reality.

Killian's eyes were sparkling like they had been when she first met him, but there was a layer of subdued anger to it, rising as his speech progressed.

"We will liberate you from the cargo meant for your corrupt king. If you wish, we will also liberate you from your service to him, and offer you a life on board the Jolly Roger, as one of us. You will get an equal share of all the spoils, including today's worth – so if there's a piece of cargo you've had your eye on, let me know and I'll see what I can do."

He looked up at the masts and grinned like a wolf. "If you do not wish... Well. Mend your sails and hope you can reach a shore before your rations run out."

Most of the sailors were scowling at him, a few looked scared – but she could tell which ones were considering it. When Killian finished speaking, one of them stepped forward, and so, after a brief moment, did the man next to him.

"New recruits?" he asked. "Excellent! What would your names be?"

"Scourie," said the first one, and the other replied, "Skylights."

Milah sighed at that. Two new faces with alliterative names, just as she'd started to learn the people already on board, and by the reaction of the pirate crew, this was standard procedure. She wondered if the crew ever got too big to be manageable – and then she saw the bloody gashes on some of the shirts, the makeshift bandages, and Teynte with her bloodied face, and she swallowed, figuring she had a pretty good idea of the answer.

A while later, when they returned to the Jolly Roger and left the loyal Navy men to their fate, Milah came close enough to Killian to ask, "Won't they just come after us when they've mended their sails?"

"They'll limp into Hikayesi or one of the other nearby ports in a few days," he replied. "We're heading straight for the main island of Basileia. Sure, if they don't spend too long licking their wounds we might bump into each other, but people don't tend to mess with the Roger twice. Especially not in a neutral area. We get into too much of a scuffle too close to shore, and they'll be thrown out for disturbing the peace just as quickly as we will, and with much further reaching diplomatic consequences." Looking her over, he frowned and asked, "Are you all right?"

Only then did she realize there was blood dripping down the inside of her leg.

"Oh, damn it," she said. "I must have dropped the cotton."

For a second he looked embarrassed, then he laughed. "Well," he said. "At least you're feeling better."

"I am," she said.

"And you handled yourself magnificently."

She knew that wasn't true – judging by the other men Mason had taken on, he had deliberately pushed a small and obnoxious one her way, to make her job easier. Still, it pleased her to know that Killian had watched, and she gave him a small but triumphant smile as she said, "Thank you."

* * *

They sailed into Basileia by the end of the week, late enough at night that the city was just a dark outline against the horizon. The crew got off the ship and made it along the pier, which lurched under Milah's feet after her long weeks at sea, towards a little harbour tavern.

The language was new, the people were new, and the salty milk she'd been served was definitely new. The taste, slightly minty, was easy to get used to, though. The most jarring difference was the way the locals were dressed, in clothes so colourful that she half believed herself in some palace, rather than a mere harbour inn. When a plate of meatballs was plunked down by a barmaid wearing _royal blue_ , Milah had to quench the urge to get up and curtsey.

Yet she was starting to feel very much at home. The tavern was every bit as welcoming as the ones in Cockaigne, and much more so than the one she'd frequented in the Enchanted Forest. As for the pirates, they spread out around the table for the same jokes and games as usual. They called out sometimes in Atlantean to the people passing by, and she realized that Cecco seemed to be a native speaker, while Murphy too came close to that level of fluency.

Compared to the wonder of Glass Hill, on that first night Atlantis had a lull of familiarity, and she went back to the ship too sleepy to even look over her shoulder.

Her reaction when they returned ashore in the daytime was completely different, and she stopped midway on the gangplank, taking in the view.

"Could you move along?" Foggerty grumbled from behind, and she hurried forward, only allowing herself to stand still once she was on firm ground.

"Keep your jaw that far down, sister," Teynte said, coming up by her side, "and they'll take you for a hick and try to fleece you."

"I am a hick," Milah said, but she closed her mouth. "Is that the Temple of Wisdom?"

"It's the Temple of the Rising Sun," Teynte said. "Well worth a look too, if you ask me. But if it's Wisdom you want, it's over..." She grabbed Milah's shoulders and spun her a quarter of a circle to the right. "There."

Milah took in the tall spires, the golden glisten of the three rounded domes, and the sheer size, evident even from this far off. The black and white picture in Killian's book could not do it justice, much less her own sketched attempts.

"Could you..."

"Course," Teynte said and nudged her forward. "Come on!"

They ran up and down the cobbled streets, and ever so often Milah had to stop to look at a mosaic wall, or an amulet hanging from a window. Only the prize ahead prevented her from gawking at those things all day long.

Even at the magnificent gates of the temple itself, Teynte wouldn't let her stop, but pulled her through and pushed her into sitting position on a stone ledge by the wall.

"Look up," she said, and Milah obeyed.

She had seen elemental moving pictures before, small paintings sold by pedlars passing through the village. As magic went, it was fairly simple: paint made from minerals and water, hardened by fire, and made to move with gusts of wind, all aided by a spell. Any witch could do it, but never before had Milah seen an artwork on such a scale, or made with such evident artistry.

People, animals and creatures inbetween moved in a leisurely, flowing path across the ceiling, surrounded by winding vegetation that flowed like waves in a mild breeze. Most of the figures were unfamiliar to her, but she recognized owl-faced Wisdom in her armour, with the wide wings gently flapping to usher her companions along. Several of the others seemed to be gods and goddesses too, judging by the strange mix of features and the brightness used in their colours. Crowds of ordinary humans and animals appeared among them, as did solitary people who gave off a definite impression of having been painted from life - probably benefactors of the temple in some fashion.

Pipes along the crown of the walls blew out air at regular intervals, changing the pictures to make new figures appear and transform as old ones moved out into the sidelines or disappeared altogether.

"The Atlanteans consider this style of art old-fashioned," Teynte said. "Primitive, even. According to their line of thinking for the past few centuries, gods cannot be captured in mortal form, and so newer temples mostly have abstract decorations... but I guess even the Atlanteans think this is too pretty to get rid of."

"Pretty doesn't cover it," Milah said, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "All those layers, and every one as detailed as the finest portrait. It's not all naturalistic, either, the way a full-magic painting would be. There are distinctive styles in there, several, in fact. I don't think it was all done by the same person."

"Probably not," Teynte agreed. "Well, let me know when you're ready to see the rest of the city. Or the rest of the temple, for that matter." She chortled a little, then walked off.

Milah was vaguely aware that there were other details of artistry in the temple, but it seemed a frightful pity to take her eyes off the painting when someone had put so much work into it.

A woman in a glittering, high-collared black robe strode across the ceiling, flowers wilting in her path. She was clearly a version of Lady Frost, and Milah's eyes searched for the Florius, finding him seconds before the two met. His crown changed colours, then the leaves fell and swirled around them in their embrace, giving birth to Autumn. At home, she would be carven in wood, usually spruce or fir, with only the dress painted the colours of fallen leaves. This version, too, had swirling patterns in the skin, though the impression was of a different kind of wood, maybe walnut.

Since this was Wisdom's temple, Milah correctly guessed that the next scene would be the Judgement of the gods, where the couple were tried for throwing the year off balance. Wisdom, her wings spread out in a protective manner, endorsed their union with a benedicting nod of her head – as long, the story went, as balance was set right. Autumn had to share dominion with her new brother Spring, bursting forth in a rain of blossoms the artist had taken great care, and evident joy, to draw. Most of them were of no kind Milah recognised, either imaginary or local to Atlantis.

A familiar voice called her name, and added with a sad tone to it, "I wanted to be the one to show you this, you know."

"Killian!" she said, startled enough for the spell to be broken. There was a crick in her neck, and Teynte was nowhere in sight. "How did you know I was here?"

"It was a fairly safe bet," he said, his smile brittle as if he wasn't sure of his welcome.

She hurried to make room for him – he _had_ been the one to describe Atlantis to her – and his relief was evident.

"Though if my hunch had proven incorrect," he continued, more self-assure, "I would have tried to charm the ladies at the public bath next to learn if they had seen you. I know it's Teynte's favourite."

"Where is she?" Milah wondered, seeing no-one familiar in the dense crowd.

"Out in the temple yard, having a drink from the well. She said she'd told you."

Milah pondered that. There had been people moving and speaking all around her, she knew, but until Killian called her name, she hadn't paid any attention.

Killian grinned at her expression. "Take care," he joked, "people have been known to study this temple for twenty years. Didn't figure you for the meditative type."

There were a lot worse places to spend twenty years, as far as she was concerned. She asked, "I thought the Atlanteans found this primitive?"

"The theology, sure. Not the art."

She leaned back to watch again, and sighed, thinking of the much less skilfully made statues in the temples at home. "They must think us such louts."

"They can be arrogant bastards," he agreed. "Doesn't mean they're right."

He looked up too, and raised his arm slightly, as if to put it around her shoulders. Instantly, she tensed up, but he seemed to think better of it and settled both hands in his lap.

Battling the sense of relief and disappointment, she tried to take his attention elsewhere. "Who's the woman in the tower, with all the books?"

"Kütüphaneci."

"Kitty...?"

"Kütüphaneci. The librarian. According to official records, she was one of the patrons back when the temple was built. A most prosaic figure. In folklore, she grew to become something of a local saint."

The magic took on another layer from that tale, ordinary people taking their place right among the gods, and she followed the painted woman with even more interest.

"You know, we're only staying a week," he pointed out after a while. "You may want to see something else."

"Always just staying a week," she said. "I'm not going to rush through Atlantis just so I can say I've seen it all." But she did tear her gaze away from the ceiling once again. "I guess I should find Teynte."

They both stood up, and Milah stretched out her back a little. Killian, with a smile, fished out a small money purse from his satchel and offered it to her.

"What's this?" she asked.

"Your salary. The reason I came."

'Reason' sounded more like 'pretext' coming from him, and she frowned. "I can't take it."

"You should. It's your share, same as everyone else's."

He held the purse out again, and she put her hands behind her back.

"I should be paying you, for taking me on board, and taking care of me."

"Bloody –" He bit down on the next word, mindful of his surroundings. "I was glad to do it, and you've earned your keep many times over."

After a moment's hesitation, se held her hand out for the purse, and once Killian gave it to her, she opened it, starting to count coins.

"All right," she said. "How much for the passage? And I've got to pay Starkey for the clothes, and Cook..."

"You're actually serious. Very well, but not in here."

Firmly, he led her into the templeyard and gestured for her to sit down next to him on the grass. She could see Teynte leaning against the well some distance off, following their actions with some interest.

He took the purse back momentarily and poured its contents out on the ground. Milah's eyes widened. Not even at her most comfortable had she ever owned that much money at once.

"Starkey's had some expenses, I'll allow," he said, setting a few silver coins aside. "As for that skirt, five coppers at the most."

"There's the lessons with Mason, too," she pointed out. "And Teynte for... everything."

"You don't put a price on friendship, love," he said.

His eyes implored her to leave it at that, but she pressed on.

"And how much for the passage?"

"Milah, _please_."

"If I weren't..." She set her jaw. "If I were just some harridan you took on for promise of payment, how much would you charge?"

He counted out six silver pieces, then, more reluctantly, four more, leaving an amount that came closer to the kind of money she could have earned in a good month.

When she'd been a child, there had been this stray dog by the schoolyard, a mangy thing with drooping tail and runny eyes. Once, one of the bigger boys in school had offered the dog a strip of bacon, and the animal had gratefully run over. Only, when it came close, the boy had eaten the bacon himself and taken off his belt to beat the dog, sending it running back to where it came from.

She couldn't remember what had happened to the dog afterwards, but she'd never forget that look of heartbroken bewilderment. Seeing it on a human being was even worse. Silently, she gathered the remaining money up in the purse, then leaned over and kissed Killian on the cheek.

"What was that for?" he asked, hope returning to his face.

"Because now we're even," she said. "A fresh start."

He smiled, one of those brilliant smiled she had missed so much since their falling-out.

"Pirate to pirate?" he asked.

"That's right," she said, returning his smile.

His eyes fixed on her mouth, and once again, she leaned over to kiss him, lightly, on the lips this time.

"Unbelieveable!" Teynte called out from her place by the well, just as the kiss ended. "Priorities, woman!" She trotted over, close enough that Milah could see every wrinkle of her nose, and added, "If you want to go moony-eyed over the captain, there's plenty of time to do that on the Roger. No need to waste time in Atlantis of all places."

"I feel that I've failed to teach you proper respect," Killian started, but Milah laughed.

"No, it's fine, I did promise," she said, standing up. "I'll come with you now. And I'll see _you_ later," she told Killian. "Unless you want to join us?"

"Sadly," he said with a grin that belied the word, "as much as I'd love to, I'm not allowed."

* * *

Teynte took none too kindly to the suggestion that Milah owed her money.

"If you're going to be crass, you can pay for your own bath," she said. "I meant to treat you to it, but there's no point, is there, if you're keeping tally on everything."

"Of course, I'd be glad to," Milah said, cheeks heating. "There's so much that you've helped me with, and I feel..."

Teynte made a polite comment about where Milah could shove her money, and it seemed wisest, after that, to let the matter drop.

The bath house was half full, but still restful compared to the streets and the temple. The light walls and sparse furnishing added to the contrast, and for Milah's overwhelmed mind, it was by now a welcome change. She paid her fee, was handed a towel, and followed Teynte into the changing room.

Previously, they'd always changed in their bunks, but Milah had taken enough swims with friends in her younger years to be comfortable around nakedness. Even so, as Teynte took off first her shirt, then the tight knitted chemise, Milah did a double take.

Underneath those baggy clothes, there were actual shapes, more generous ones than Milah had had at that age. She'd been thinking of Teynte as little more than a child, and she should have known better – after all, by sixten, she'd been as good as betrothed.

"It's through here," Teynte said, having shed the last of her clothes and replaced them with the towel.

Milah quickly finished undressing too and followed inside.

They sat down on a large marble platform in a steamy room, along with some other women wrapped in towels. All along the edge of the platform, naked women were being scrubbed and washed, yet the atmosphere was remarkably chaste.

At least, until it was their turn. Milah scooted gracelessly over to the leader of the washers, an older woman who gave her a brisk nod and got to work, making very little conversation since Milah couldn't understand it anyway. Throwing a glance over in Teynte's direction, Milah saw that her washer was of a different nature. Long, dark locks fell across a freckled face that leaned close to Teynte and whispered something in her ear, something that got the younger girl smiling in delight.

The leader saw it too and barked something that made the two put more of a distance between themselves. The Atlantean girl's face was flushed, though the steam might be to blame for that.

Not betrothed at sixteen, perhaps, but they seemed well on their way. Milah left them to their privacy and concentrated on the strange sensation of her own scrubbing. She hadn't been brushed down so thoroughly since she'd been a little girl, and the amount of grime on the brush showed how much she'd needed it.

By the time she was done, she'd been rinsed and soaked, and though she had the colour of a newborn pig, she felt more like a summer potato ready for the boiling pot. Teynte resembled most of all a glistening brown chestnut taken out of its thick hide – a hide she put back on as soon as they returned to the changing room.

"Is that chemise comfortable?" Milah asked dubiously, seeing those breasts disappear behind cloth again.

"Like you wouldn't believe." Teynte finished doing up the hooks and asked, "Well? Isn't this terrific?"

"It's nice," Milah said, and couldn't help teasing, "though I don't know what you like best the washing or the washer."

"They're strictly professional," Teynte said primly. "No dallying with the customers. Which is why I'll be meeting her tomorrow off-hours." She grinned. "So tomorrow you can fall in awe of the wonders of Basileia for as long as you want. Today, we've got to get you equipped."

* * *

Equipped turned out to mean a new belt, a dagger to stick into it, a headscarf, and a wooden box "for whatever small items you don't want to lose," before they made their way to a seamstress.

Milah's skirt was by now quite grubby, and the shirt nowhere near the pristine condition that Starkey had kept it in, even though she'd tried washing them both in seawater. Thus, it was a relief to be able to order two more shirts, another skirt, and... well, she balked a little about the pair of breeches.

"Are you sure about that?" she asked Teynte.

"Trust me, it's not just personal preference. You'll want them when you're climbing things, or in the winter... oh, which reminds me! A coat!"

Milah had always worn double skirts and long woollen stockings in the winter, but seeing how even with an overcast sky, this early Atlantean autumn was more like summer, she'd probably encounter winters that were different from what she was used to. The thought tickled her, and she folded to Teynte's expertise without further comment.

The shelves in the seamstress's room were filled with different kinds of cloth, and her eyes were drawn to a package of red silk interwoven with gold thread, which gave off a warm glint in the soft light. The seamstress, seeing Milah's interest, dashed forward and began showing off the material, placing it next to an off-white cotton and making gestures of how lovely they'd look together, as dress and petticoat.

"Oh, no, we're not buying that," Teynte said.

"No," Milah tried to explain, "We couldn't afford it. Too expensive."

"You wouldn't want it, anyway," Teynte said. "You'd tear it to pieces in no time, at our line of work."

"I know," she said, heart still yearning. "I can't. I'm sorry," she told the seamstress, and she meant it, too.

Teynte tried to comfort her on the way back. "The stitching was coarse and so was the fabric. If you want a silk dress, you can nab a length of silk next time we steal some. It's bound to happen sooner or later."

Milah agreed, though in her heart she couldn't forget the way the light fell on that particular material. If it had been true high-quality silk, it would have been easier to forget, because that remained out of her reach, but the money in her purse _could_ have bought her this cheaper imitation – if it had all belonged to her.

Thus it was with some yearning still that she returned to the _Roger_ , but she decided to save the memory of that cloth in the same place of her mind as the temple, or the mosaic walls – precious things to see, but not to own. With that decision made, she went to repay her debtors.

Starkey took the money with no comment, though he politely declined the return of his shirt and belt, which was understandable, in their current condition.

Cook, whose lended skirt was now in such a state Milah didn't even want to offer it back, took the five coppers with an amused snort. It was a petty sum compared to their share of the loot, but Milah still felt better, having given it.

Mason flat-out refused, with less heat than Teynte but much the same kind of stubbornness.

"Didn't do nothing for you that I wouldn't do for anyone who asked," he said. "Better if a pirate knows how to fight."

While she couldn't argue with the second half of that statement, she suspected the first half was a lie – but she couldn't prove it, not since the only two people who'd come on board after her were already navy crew. Still, she pressed the issue:

"I feel obliged to you, for the lessons, and everything else. I'd feel better if there was something I could do for you."

He scrunched up his eye against the sun and thought about that. "You could show me where you bought that box," he said.

"The box?"

"The little one. If you remember."

"No, I remember," she said. The stall had been close enough to the bath house that she believed she could find her way back. It seemed such a small and peculiar request, though, that she asked, "Is that all?"

"Yuh. Would make a nice gift for the missus."

For a moment, she just stood staring at him, until words found her lips. "You're _married_!?"

"Yuh. Got three lads, too."

So many questions tumbled through her head, and she grabbed one of them as it passed by. "Do you miss them?"

"Course. But I got them a little farm in Tir na n'Og, and we go there a few times a year, so I get to see them then."

The way his voice softened was endearing, yet she felt a pang of envy in her heart. He could be gone most of the year and stride right back into his family's life like nothing happened. No one would think worse of him for it. If she had tried an arrangement of that sort...

"Well, I think it's lovely," she said, with bright and fake sunniness. "And of course I'll show you where to buy a box. Or I can help you find something nicer, if you'd rather."

"Can't really waste money on something much nicer."

"Nicer isn't necessarily more expensive." But a thought struck her, and she calculated the amount of money left in her purse. Not enough for a dress, but maybe enough for the fabric – especially if she had someone to haggle on her behalf. "Tell you what. I've got my eye on a little something. If you help me get a good price, you'll get all the money that's left over. Deal?"

He guffawed, and stretched a hand out. "Deal."


	7. Chapter 7

She returned to the ship the next afternoon with a proud glow, having aquired the fabric, one of the finished skirts, and a beautiful little box with mother-of-pearl inlays that Mason declared would be "just right" for his wife. Milah had no idea if it was valuable or not, and suspected not, but the pattern was exquisite.

Soeng was there when she entered the cabin, and he looked almost as sceptical as Teynte at the sight of the fabric, so she felt rather self-conscious, packing it away. She could tell exactly what it would look like, in the right lighting and combined with the right petticoat, but it unsettled her that nobody else seemed to see what she saw.

The woollen skirt, she didn't pack away at all, opting instead to retreat to her bunk and get changed. She kicked the old skirt to the foot of the bed and put on the new, which had a few inches to spare but fell nicely when she fastened the belt. The dark, mossy green of it clashed a little with Starkey's blue shirt, but would look great once she got her own new ones.

Engrossed in the reapparel, she barely heard the cough from the doorway, but she did hear Soeng suddenly get up and leave. Curious, she pushed the curtain aside, and saw Killian, leaning on the doorjamb. Upon seeing her, he broke into a grin.

"Did you order him out?" she asked.

"It was more of a mild suggestion," he said. "You look nice."

"Thank you."

"I heard you spent your  _entire_  salary in just two days," he said, eyes narrowed in an exaggerated stern look. "That's impressive."

The teasing made her sound rather frivolous. "You got most of it."

"That's true." He scratched his neck and took a deep breath before he continued, "Listen, I know we're supposed to be even now, and I don't want to ruin that or anything, but... I couldn't resist."

Stepping forward, he revealed two books and a small leather case, that he'd been holding hidden by the doorjamb. She took them, puzzled to see Atlantean words stamped into the cover of the first book – it wouldn't be anything she could read. Opening it, the first thing that met her eye was a woodcut of the Temple of Wisdom, and it was with rising excitement that she leafed it through, seeing details from the ceiling as well as other parts of the Temple.

"I thought since you won't have time to see it all..." Killian said with an apologetic shrug.

"It's beautiful. Thank you." She opened the second book, which turned out to consist of blank pages. For a moment, her mind was equally blank, until she thought to unwrap the leather case, which turned out to hold five long pencils and a sharpening knife.

Part of her wanted to say 'you shouldn't have', but the discomfort and obligation was pushed out by the thought of all the images that could fill those pages. New shores, new cities and people, and all the aspects of the ocean – it would be incredibly difficult, capturing that in black and white, but she could try. She could  _try_ , and she blinked away sudden pricking wetness.

"I hope you don't mind," he said.

She looked up. His grin was gone now, and his eyes held that rare expression of solemn sincerity that made them look even bluer. That would be a hell of a thing to capture in black and white too.

"Can I draw you?" she asked.

"What, now?"

"Unless you're busy."

"Of all the wonders of the high seas," he said, trying to make a joke out of it, "my face is the first thing you want to draw?"

"Yes." His face would be there, every time she opened the book, and it made her body tingle.

"Very well." He sat down on Bilal's bunk and put both hands in his lap, though they kept moving, fingers interlacing and rubbing against each other.

Giving him as critical a gaze as she could muster, she sat down too and put the book down on her knees. The top bunk was throwing unflattering shadows over his face, so she told him:

"Move forward a bit. And turn your head a little to the side... there."

"I'm not allowed to look at you?" he asked, doing so out of the corner of his eye.

"I want to get your nose right."

"Don't I have a nose from the front?"

"It's prettier from this angle." The half-profile gave a good view of both the long, straight slope of the bridge and the sharp curve of the nostril. The kohl-darkened lines of his eyes became darker still in the dim light, eyes gleaming under raised eyebrows.

"Next time I'll definitely think of that," he said. "Whenever we speak, I shall turn my head away so as to not offend you with an imperfect view of my nose."

"Stop talking," she said, trying not to laugh as she drew the first lines. "I'm working."

"Your wish is my command," he said, scratching behind his ear.

"Can you brush your hair aside a bit more?" she asked, because the shape of his ear was another thing that would be interesting to capture.

That made his diaphragm jump, but he managed to keep his face still as he obliged.

For a while she worked in silence, taking extra care with each line since she didn't have any pumice or soft bread to erase them. His face became mere shapes, devoid of all meaning except the puzzle of how to translate them into gray scale on paper.

"Captain? Oh, there you are." Ryan barely granted her a glance as he stepped into the room and addressed Killian. "I just got news that there are Avalonian ships headed for Nysa. Should we make it our next stop?"

"We do need medical supplies. I suppose it depends on how many those ships are." Killian stood up and gave Milah an apologetic grimace. "Sorry, love, we'll have to continue this later."

With that, he followed his first mate outside, and Milah was left alone with her half-finished drawing.

Yes, she could continue later, but she longed to fill in those missing spaces. If she were to be honest with herself, she did know the aspects of Killian's face well enough, by now, to not need it in front of her. Slowly, she drew the mouth, the jut of the chin and the shade of his beard. The eyes didn't get that intensity she'd been aiming for, and she covered her failure by adding more shadow.

Once she finished her drawing, she let it rest on her lap, staring at it. There was no use lying to herself. She'd never be free of this face. If one day he tired of her and tossed her ashore, if she had to spend the next twenty years as a serf in a foreign land, his features would remain imprinted in her mind's eye, an aching hole to fit with the others.

She turned the page and started making a drawing of another face, younger, rounder. At first she drew a smile, but that felt like lying. With harder, blacker lines, she drew a serious expression over it. Accusatory, bewildered – the expression that had faced her, that night in the inn.

This drawing took a lot longer to finish. Several of the lines she sketched in lightly at first, wanting to make them absolutely perfect, and every new form that took shape brought pricks of tears to her eyes, but she couldn't stop. The portrait needed to be finished, and even after it was, she remained seated, watching it, until Bilal came down and asked her if she was coming to dinner.

At dinner, conversation turned to other topics, and then she helped Starkey double-check his numbers for the recent acquisitions, so by the next morning, when Killian asked with a wink if she wanted to continue with her portrait, she had clean forgotten about it.

"Oh!" she said. "It's done."

"It's done?" He looked disappointed at the news.

"Yes, I finished it after you left yesterday. I can show you if you want."

She'd put the book in her skirt pocket, wanting to draw some of the city houses, and pulled it out now to show him.

At first, he seemed at a loss of words, seeing himself at the page, then the glint came back in his eyes and he said, "Almost as handsome as the original, isn't it?"

"Maybe," she said with a roll of her eyes, taking the book back.

"Will you make me one of yourself?"

"Why?"

"Because I like your face. And I'd like to see how you see yourself. You can use my mirror, if you want."

The way she saw herself wasn't fit to show anyone, but she couldn't exactly turn down the request. "Very well. Would tomorrow do? I meant to draw one of those mosaic walls today."

"The one by the race court? Understandable. I suppose the self-portrait can wait until we've left Atlantis. On a boring day at sea, aye?"

"Sounds good."

"Just don't forget." His hand stroked softly over her cheek, and she turned to kiss his fingers, without even thinking.

He stepped in closer, and this was ridiculous, they were up on deck in full view of everyone else, she couldn't possibly... but her racing pulse urged her forward, just long enough to satisfy the worst of her need, while not giving the crew too much of a show.

"I won't forget," she promised.

* * *

The trip from Atlantis to Nysa was long enough that Milah had time to work both on her self portrait and her sword play. The latter proved to be easier. Her first drawing attempts weren't anything to show a prospective suitor, and whenever she tried something more palatable, it just came off as insipid self-flattery. After that, it was easier to just whack at things with her sword, and Mason was remarkably patient about it.

"You're about ready to let loose for real, now," he said at one point, giving her an appreciative nod that made her want to crow in triumph.

To actually  _be_  let loose was more unsettling. There were plenty of Avalonian ships traveling to Nysa at the moment, negotiating an alliance, and while the Jolly Roger couldn't go for the big guns, her crew was more than happy to pick off any little ship going on its own.

In fact, the first ship they encountered was small enough that she didn't have to do more than stand around and attempt to look menacing. After that, though, the crew's appetite got whetted, and they deliberately cut a navy ship off from its meeting point, in the pirate equivalent of thumbing your nose at a school mate to have him chase you.

"You do realise that we're less than two hours away from the rest of the fleet?" she heard Ryan ask Killian as they sided up to their opponent ship.

"Two hours is plenty of time," Killian said. "Have some sense of adventure!"

The notion still made Milah nervous, especially since, for the first time, she was to accompany the looters below deck. Wearing the eyepatch was an uncomfortable feeling and made her want to turn her head all the time to get a wider perspective. On one of those side glances, she saw Scourie and Skylights, the new recruits, wide-eyed and sweaty. That heightened her discomfort further – they had been navy officers until so recently, what was to say they wouldn't turn coats once again?

She had no time to find out. After they boarded the ship, the pirates drove the navy crew off to one side, and Milah followed the looters below. Leaving the fighters behind was unsettling, since she couldn't know what they got up to or if the pirates would keep the upper hand. The navy crew was smaller, but that didn't make victory certain, especially not if the other ships were closer than expected.

Darkness met her on her descent, making her heart race, until she saw Cecco in front of her switch his eyepatch over. Quickly, she did the same, and the shadows lightened into discernible grey.

Everyone spread out, searching the cabins and storage areas. From a distance, she could hear skirmishes, and she braced herself, but no one was in her path as she proceeded down the corridor. Most of her crew mates were searching the cargo. Some went for the sleeping cabins, but that struck her as needlessly avaricious. There could be little of value found by rummaging through the sailor's medger possessions, which they probably needed themself, should they survive.

The door on her left was more promising, if the layout of this ship was anything like the Jolly Roger. She tried the handle and stepped into the captain's cabin. More worn than Killian's -this was an old ship - but not devoid of treasures. The pen holder was silver, as were the goblets next to it on the table. The paperwork had no monetary value that she could tell, but the reverse sides were empty, so she pushed the papers down the front of her shirt.

Busy with her work, she didn't hear the next person arrive in the room, but she did hear a sword being drawn, and spun around, dropping everything to grab her own. The man facing her was young, low-ranked, not the captain - but she was too shaken by being caught off guard to pick up on much more. She attacked right away, and he parried without much difficulty, attacking in turn.

The door was only a few feet away, and there were people on the other side. Her people, and he became nothing more than an obstacle to her freedom. She slashed at whatever could keep him at a distance, and her sword made a deep cut in his upper left arm.

Blood spurted out with a force that shocked her, and it was only the habit of Mason's lessons that stopped her from dropping her guard. Their swords clashed again, and then Cecco entered the room, finally. Before he even had time to raise his own sword, her opponent stumbled and fell.

Cecco sucked in air between his teeth and shook his head as he stepped over the wounded sailor."Hell of a way to go," he said. "Is that your loot? Good girl, pick it up. I'll find the money."

Milah obediently bent down, then stopped, eyes fixed on the man in front of her. She could see him clearly now, his straw-coloured hair and narrow face, paler by the second. His uniform showed that he was a lower ranking officer, though she didn't know the grades of Avalon well enough to tell which kind.

"I only hit his arm," she said, searching for the word to explain. "A flesh wound. It was a flesh wound. Wasn't it?"

"Arteries don't care if it's flesh or not," Cecco said. He'd found the captain's keys and was trying them on a locked cabinet, giving a low "ha!" when he found the right one. "You cut one, and they'll bleed out, no matter which limb you hit. Leave him alone, it'll be over soon."

She gathered her dropped items, but couldn't help murmuring "I'm sorry," feeling foolish as she did so. After all, wasn't this the point? The sailor had fallen unconscious and didn't seem to have heard her, and as luck would have it, Cecco hadn't either. He was working on the money box, and soon got it unlocked.

The commotion outside was dying down, and before they left the cabin, the sailor had drawn his last breath as well. Milah followed Cecco onto the deck, his retreating back her thread in a foggy labyrinth.

Killian was holding his customary speech to the rounded-up Navy men, pirates were destroying the rigging, and she stopped at the back, quiet like a bystander at a magical rite. Any word might turn them all into toads.

Her shirt was sticky and uncomfortable, but the dark maroon showed no stains. Maybe that was why Teynte had chosen it; she'd been so decisive that Milah hadn't argued, though it wasn't her own favourite. The skirt had only a few spatters, but the silver cups in her hands showed a smear of red.

Mullins was by the gunwale, tending to someone - she couldn't tell who, but whoever it was, he was still moving. Perhaps not for much longer, though, judging by Mullins's drawn eyebrows.

Killian got to the part where he offered the sailors work, and she hoped that none of them would take it.

"You want to, don't you?" she heard Teynte say behind her.

Something about her tone was strange, too soft and playful, and turning around, Milah saw her friend nudge a half-grown cabin boy towards the front. Of all the people to choose... but her protest died in her throat when she saw the desperate longing in his eyes.

"I'd like to volunteer, sir!" he called out, stumbling towards the front, his voice shaking only slightly.

Killian grinned like a wolf. "That's a lad! What's your name?"

"Billy Jukes, sir."

"Welcome to my crew, Mr. Jukes. Teynte, you're promoted."

"About bloody time, too!" Teynte called triumphantly back, to scores of laughter from the rest.

Killian gave her a mock stern look, but he was laughing too. "All right, you dogs," he said. "Get the goods on board the Roger before we get company here."

The pirates obeyed, and as Milah put her trembling feet on her home deck, she noticed that the man Mullins was tending to was Foggerty. With Soeng's help, Mullins gently lifted him on board, and made some comment to Killian. Whatever its content, it was drowned out by Cooper's holler from the stern:

"Ship ahoy!"

Milah's heart raced, but Killian merely nodded.

"Right. Mr. Ryan, pick the nearest secluded harbour that has a good healer nearby." Looking over at Foggerty, who hung from Mullins's arms like a newly washed bedsheet, he added, "A good thing we're headed for Nysa."

* * *

Milah wasn't sure just how they let slip of the Avalonian ships, but they made it to Nysa a few hours later without further incident, just after nightfall. One of the renowned Nysa healers was sent for. The ensuing calm was subdued compared to their previous shore leaves, but enough to convince Milah that the danger was over and make her aware of her own sorry state. She had been too tense to bother about changing clothes before, but now it could no longer be avoided. Hauling a bucket of sea water on board, she took it into her cabin and proceeded to wash herself and then soak her clothes, the men considerately leaving her at peace as she did so. The sheets of papers she'd stolen were blood-spattered, and though she might have salvaged parts of them, she didn't have the stomach. Instead, as soon as she was decent again, she tossed them out the nearest porthole.

Maybe after the change of clothes, her demeanour still left something to be desired, because when they left the dinner table, Killian asked, "Care to join me for a drink?" with none of his usual flirtatious levity.

"I'd love to," she said, and with only the slightest of trepidation joined him in his cabin, where he handed her a cup of rum, poured straight from his flask.

Just the knowledge of the drink helped, the taste of it down her throat before its effects had set in.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

She spun the glass around slowly on the table, trying to articulate her reaction."What made you become a pirate?" she asked.

He drew a deep breath, muscles tensing. "Why do you ask?"

"I killed a man today. I'd like to know if he deserved it."

"Probably not," he said, watching her closely. "But that's war for you. They're not all ogres."

Ogres wouldn't have haunted her like this. She asked: "Why this war, though? Why both sides at once? I know it has something to do with the Avalonian government, but..."

"It's rather more personal than that." He sat quiet for a while, his hands holding onto his upper arms. At last, he said: "We were sent on a mission to fetch... Well, we were told it was a plant of great medicinal value. It turned out to be poison."

"For your enemies?" she asked, to fill the silence that followed.

"Aye. But that's a coward's way to fight a war. My brother and I had an argument, once we learned the plant's true nature. He claimed that the king woyld never behave in such an underhanded way, and to prove it, he tried the plant." Killian's expression was darker than she'd seen it even in battle. "He died in my arms that same day."

"I'm sorry," she said, waiting for the rest of the explanation. When nothing more came, the words slipped out without her intention: "Is that it?"

"Is that it!?" he repeated disbelievingly.

"Well, I mean... couldn't you have just quit?"

"And done what? Kept my mouth shut, let this unjust warfare carry on? Or spoken up and waited around for them to execute me? Have you seen a traitor's death?" His jaw was clenched and his voice quivering with a rage that seemed barely controlled, and even though it wasn't aimed at her, it made her shiver. "I have. Hanged, drawn, and quartered, the Avalon way. I spoke the truth to anyone who would listen. I steal the King's treasure, fight his Navy, and every once and again, win over a Navy man for our ship. Is that not a worthy enough cause for you? Would you have preferred pure greed?"

"No, you're right, it's a good cause," she said, because wars had been fought for worse, and this mission, overblown as it may be, still had something noble about it.

It just wasn't, nor could it ever be,  _her_ cause. The king of Avalon was of no concern to her, nor were kings and queens in general. Stealing from them didn't bother her. She'd spent years trying to do things the right way and gained nothing in return but a broken heart and a joyless marriage. Now she had a length of silk in her cabin, and if it was bought with gold meant to line some officer's pocket, so what?

But that boy slowly bleeding out was another matter. He'd suffered, more than he had to, and though she might not be able to avoid all killings, she could at least avoid the needless ones. She'd have to train harder with Mason, get her skills sharpened and toughen up.

"I need another drink," she said. "And so do you."

She poured both of their cups full and drained hers immediately, filling it up once more. Killian followed suit, his shoulders relaxing as they finished the third drinks as well.

"So there you have it," he said. "Are you still staying?"

"Yes," she said, and the smile he gave her was so wide and relieved that it startled her.

Most of the time, when he was leading his crew or trying to charm her, it was easy to forget how very young he was. Now, it was in stark evidence on his face, and she remembered that Mason had said that Killian's brother had been the captain first. Taking on responsibility of the crew and turning them towards piracy, all after losing his brother, and at least four years ago, judging by when Teynte came on board. Barely older than that boy she'd killed today, lost and lonely in a role he didn't know how to fill.

She leaned across the table and kissed him, gentler than ever before, and he met the kiss, tangling his fingers in her hair. The table was in their way, and they moved around it, parting as little as possible from each other, while the kiss deepened, turned harsher.

Pushing him back until he sat at the edge of the table, she leaned into him, kissing her way along his jaw. To keep balance, he braced himself with his hands, and jerked away with a half-laughed curse when the cup of rum nearly toppled over he. He raised it, ready to drink, then offered it to her with a minute bow.

"Ladies first."

She took a mouthful, but instead of swallowing she kissed him once more, letting the alcohol sip between their lips. A little of it dribbled down, and she tried to catch it, in vain.

"Nothing like rum to get you in the mood," he said with a giddy snort of laughter.

The rum was less to blame than the murder, the needless waste of a life combined with the morbid certainty of mortality. A man had died by her hand today, and two cabins away, a member of her crew lay critically injured. Whatever lay ahead, more death was guaranteed, and the end of it may be their execution. Killian's throat held no mark of a hangman's rope; she kissed that fear away, revelling in the smooth skin and the stubble of a beard that lead into the full chest of hair beneath.

"Bed," he panted when she got to the buttons of his vest, and he had a point there, because too many items would need to be cleared off the table and yet it would remain uncomfortable, while the bed, while narrower, was fully made and right there waiting for them.

He turned out the lamp on his way to the bed, and she was grateful for that, because as much as she'd love a closer look at his body, she wasn't ready to leave her own up for comparisons. The windows still let some moonlight in, enough to guide their way while merciful shadows shrouded the details.

This was no romantic lover's meeting; she was driven by an impatient hunger that would finally be sated, and the effect of the rum left her fingers clumsy. Killian was much the same, clothes kicked aside with an avid urgency until he could lie down with her.

The act was over quickly – too quickly, and she tried to keep him inside, arching against him for further satisfaction, until he brought his hand to her mound and sent her the few final moments across the edge. His body weighed her down, enough that she had to push him onto his side, and they rested together on the narrow bed, limbs still entwined.

She felt his breath tickle her neck, the warmth of his skin against her and the pulse racing under it, and her last muddled thought before falling asleep was an overwhelming gratitude not to be alone.


	8. Chapter 8

The sun was throwing its first beams over the edge of the horizon when Milah woke up, pressed against the wall. Something was lying across her chest. Blinking against the light, she could see that it was Killian's arm. The rest of him was dangerously close to falling off the bed, and she sat up, squirming down to the foot of the bed and then to the floor. He shifted in his sleep, spreading out across the area she'd left behind, and she held her breath. When he didn't wake, she sighed and started gathering her clothes.

The rum might not have been the best idea after all. For one thing, it had only been a couple of days since she'd started taking Cook's potion, and she had no idea how quickly it would work. The idea that she might have inadvertently put herself in a position that would cut her journey short before it had even started was enough to make her curse.

With her socks and boots in hand, she tiptoed out of the cabin. At first, she meant to go back to her own and ask Teynte, but the risk of the others overhearing her concern made her decide against that option, instead proceeding towards the galley. She passed a couple of crewmembers on the way, but they made no comment as she scurried past.

Cook wasn't up yet, and Milah was hesitant to rouse her, but now that the worry had settled, it wouldn't leave her mind, and so she knocked on the door at the end of the galley.

There was a grumbled, "'M coming!" from inside, and Milah waited.

Eventually, Cook opened the door. Her hair had been taken down from its customary bun and fell over her shoulders in such rich cascades, it gave the impression that she was covered with snow. She peered at Milah from between puffy eyelids and asked, "What've you done now, then?"

"I was just wondering... that potion of yours. How quickly does it work?"

Something akin to dimples showed in Cook's stony face. "A bit too eager to come out and play, were we? Ease yourself, duckie. Even if a seed's been planted, the next few doses will flush it out."

Milah's knees weakened, and she sat down on the wooden bench. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Cook yawned and viewed Milah over. "Well, as long as you're here, you could help with the breakfast. Give me some extra time to spare."

"Oh, of course!"

This was the first time Milah had tried cooking for near-thirty people at once, but Cook's instructions were clear and the meal simple, so nothing burned, which was as far as the crew's demands went. They showed up about an hour later to get their grub, and Milah was a little disappointed that Killian was not among them, although this was a common enough occurrence, especially during shore leave.

The healer, Itia, made for a strange addition to the breakfasters. She was a lithe beauty with golden-green skin and long branches braided in a crown on her head in place of hair, and she wore a leafy garment that managed to look both form-fitting and as if it had just been tossed over one shoulder. Milah had heard of the nymphs of Nysa before, but never seen one, and the sight was so riveting that she barely knew where to look, for fear of staring.

"How is Foggerty?" Starkey asked politely, and if he was similarly affected, he hid it well.

"He'll survive," Itia said in a husky voice, a heavy accent to her Avalonian. "He was lucky to arrive here in time. The conditions on this ship would not have been profitable to his prognosis."

The insult to the ship caused no protests – she gave off such an impression of effortless superiority that her comment was accepted as plain truth, and it made Milah even more curious to see what the country of Nysa would be like.

"I like your hair," she said, trying to start up a conversation. "Or, well, your... flowers."

"It's called a stefano," Itia said. "Thank you."

"Does it grow like that, or is it part of your clothing?"

Judging by the smirks of some crewmembers, this was a silly question, but Itia didn't seem to mind, answering as calmly as before.

"It grows like that – as does my clothing. It is a gift from the tree I inhabit. Everything we have, once we grow away from our mothers, comes from the plants, and it is always a gift. We never take that which is not given freely."

"Oh," Milah said, stumped by this regard of trees as sentient creatures. It explained Itia's breakfast, which consisted only of an apple and a glass of unsweetened lemon juice. Of course, nothing else could be considered a gift, not even the dried mushrooms, which were after all eaten whole... and what of the Jolly Roger herself? Dozens, maybe hundreds of trees, and certainly not given freely. It was most magnanimous of Itia not to mention it.

Searching for anything at all that might catch the nymph's approval, Milah offered her the ship's biscuits, and Itia took one, though not looking too enthused by its flavour as she bit into it. After that, the conversation died down, until Starkey brought up a new subject, of which plants were best suited for long-term storage, which let Milah off the hook for the time being.

Also new at the table was young Billy Jukes, straight-backed and with a neutral expression, but somehow giving off the impression that he was holding his breath. Even with Teynte chattering away next to him, trying to put him at ease with anecdotes and gentle teasing, he seemed so small and lonely. When the previous Navy men had joined the crew, Milah hadn't paid them any attention, but this child was a different matter. She grabbed the plate of fried fish and headed around the table, offering seconds, stopping when she reached Jukes.

"Are you settling in all right?" she asked as she put another fish on his plate.

"Yes'm," he said quietly.

"They're not riding you too hard?"

"I'm training him for my old job," Teynte said. "Cushiest on board."

"Then you're in our cabin?" Milah asked, eyes still on the boy.

"I suppose I am."

"Which you'd know if you'd slept there tonight," Teynte teased, causing Milah to end the discussion and continue around the table. But she was relieved to know that she'd be able to keep an eye on him, even if the rest of the crew seemed just as welcoming as they'd been to her.

* * *

After breakfast and morning chores, most of the crew went ashore, and as Milah stepped off the ship, she wondered if new shores would ever stop surprising her. After their previous stops, she had expected another city, but the shore led straight to a forest. Through the branches of trees, she could spot a few nearby houses, but they were woven into the branches of the trees themselves, with moss-covered roofs, which made them hard to see and harder still to count.

When she'd heard tales of nymphs as a child, they'd never been very welcoming to strangers – though of course some of those tales were of thick-headed heroes stealing from sacred groves. The density of the forest certainly suggested that visitors was a rare occurrence. Yet the crew of the  _Jolly Roger_  moved with the comfort of someone who returns to an old favourite spot.

The inhabitants went by, most of them as glamorous as Itia, and all seemingly female, but she knew that was a misconception. There were plenty of male nymphs around, it was just near impossible for a human to tell the difference. They had no body hair, and though there were a few short and stocky nymphs among the prevalence of tall and slender ones, nobody had any visible curves.

Apart from that, they weren't similar. Skin colours came in everything from blues and purples to human-like browns, which seemed to correspond with their respective plants: foxglove and poppy, easily recognizeable from their flowers, peppermint and elderberry, revealed by their scent, and in one instance, the fruits of a hawthorn.

Milah had her new sketchbook ready in her pocket and fished it out, but all the nymphs seemed to be headed different places, and their haughty bearing didn't invite her to halt someone and ask them to pose for her. The buildings, though, and the way they disappeared into the background, she could definitely do something with that...

"Hey," Teynte said, joining her. "Soeng's buying medical supplies, and Starkey's buying regular ones, and the rest of us are seeking out... old friends. So it's up to you where you want to go, really." She spotted the sketchbook and added with a grin, "Or you could just stay right here."

"Does Starkey need me?" Milah asked, eyes longingly on the three-storey tall house wrapped around an oak tree.

"I'm sure he'll manage."

So was Milah, but that didn't mean she could just shirk all responsibility either. With a sigh, she put the sketchbook away and went to join Starkey. At least it would permit her to see more of the country and its beautiful inhabitants.

Instead of a proper marketplace, there were tiny shops interspersed with the rest of the forest, some of them underground or up in trees. They were stocked with plenty of fruit and vegetables, spices, and some decent fabric, but not much else. Nor were the nymphs interested in buying much else. Starkey's little bags of minerals were soon gone, and after that it was hard haggling. Every merchant they tried flat-out rejected gold coins, but a few accepted copper, and Milah could barely suppress her laughter when at one shop, urine was accepted as a trade-in for fresh water and lemons.

"What will they  _do_  with it?" she whispered to Starkey.

"Fertilizer," he mumbled back. "Mutual gain."

He had a point there, but it was still amusing, and when she was sent out to the garden to fulfil her part of the deal, she let the laughter through, deep and hearty until tears were streaming down her face and she had to take an extra minute just to compose herself.

After that, Starkey seemed to feel that he had traded all he could, because they made their way back to the ship, and Milah paused once they reached familiar grounds, taking in the building she'd decided on before.

"Stay if you want," he told her. "As long as you help me out with the item list this afternoon."

"Absolutely," she promised him and sank down on a protruding tree root to start her drawing.

He smiled. "I'll send someone to fetch you, come dinnertime. With some luck, the captain's charms will have bought us some favours at the food stalls."

The mention of Killian stung a little – she hadn't seen him all day and wasn't sure how she should address last night when she did – so she quickly turned her attention to her work, trying to shape the branches right, entwining around doors and windows.

It felt like no time at all before Jukes came running, "Miss, it's time to... gosh, that's  _good_."

"Thank you," she said, looking down at her drawing that was only half finished. She could continue tomorrow, she supposed, or do the shading from memory otherwise. "Is it dinner already?"

"Yes'm. Although..." He shifted from foot to foot a bit. "They've got girls there. Even Miss Teynte's with a girl."

"Again?" She wondered if each of Teynte's girls knew there were others, and if there was any way to bring it up without seeming nosy. Then the full meaning of his ominous tone struck her. "Are they being... indecent?"

"Oh, no!" he assured her. "Just...  _ugh_."

Merely an expression of universal adolescent distaste for any fondness between adults, then. "Duly noted," she said drily and followed him.

The food stall was really just an L-shaped counter stacked with pots and plates, standing in a clearing, with customers sitting around at whatever suitable area they could find.

The pirates were indeed in the company of nymphs, although whether they were female nymphs or not was more than Milah could tell. For the most part, they seemed to be engaged in mere friendly conversation. Some were sitting rather closer to each other than she was accustomed to. A few were engaging in touches that, though not sexual, showed a shared appreciation of physical contact. Touches to the head were common – Teynte, for one, had her face buried in her friend's stefano, and she wasn't the only one. The gesture had a bizarre likeness to a honeybee pollinating a flower.

Killian was chatting with a purplish nymph with star-shaped flowers adorning her – or his – head. The long limbs seemed feminine enough, though their small bristles gave a downy appearance, which didn't detract from her beauty. His beauty? Milah couldn't tell, and she wasn't sure if Killian could. One problem at a time; she settled for "her".

There was nothing untoward going on, but Milah slowed her steps slightly, and as she did, Killian looked up. His mouth quirked up, and he kept eye contact as he pulled the nymph into his lap and whispered something into her ear, lips brushing against the skin and hands going around her waist to areas that would have been indecent, had she been human.

Milah turned on her heel and started walking back to the ship. She'd lost all desire to dine with the others, and there would be enough ship's biscuits and dried meat on the  _Roger_  to carry her over.

Behind her, there was a thump and a Nysan expletive, followed by hurried footsteps through the grass, but she kept walking.

"Milah! Milah, wait up!"

That did nothing to deter her, and she already had the ship in sight by the time Killian caught up with her and grabbed her arm.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was... it was stupid. I shouldn't have done it. It didn't mean anything."

"I don't suppose it did," she said, shaking his hand off. "I don't suppose any of us  _mean_  anything."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Rage was bubbling up inside her, making the forest disappear from the edges of her vision. "You know, you can do what you want, we don't have any kind of agreement. But you did it to hurt me. On purpose. And that's using both of us."

His averted gaze was all the confirmation she needed.

"Why?" she demanded.

"I wanted to see if I could," he admitted.

"That's the stupidest bloody thing I've heard in my life."

At that, he raised his head, and there was a new tightness to his jaw that suggested the anger wasn't just on her part. "I never know where I stand with you! If I mean anything more to you than the fastest route out of town."

"And this is your way of asking?"

"I love you," he challenged.

It rolled so easily off his tongue, she wondered how many girls he'd said it to before, and if it had made them relent, the way he clearly expected her to relent.

"Gods, you're such an idiot," she muttered.

"That's it, then." His jaw tightened further. "You don't love me back."

"So what if I do?" she shouted. "If you think that makes everything all right, then all that proves is that you've never been in love!"

"I have now."

They watched each other in silence for a while, and she thought that this should have brought butterflies to her stomach, and probably would later on, but the bitter rage didn't allow for any.

"I'm sorry," he said again. Pleading, but with a sense of arrogance to it still, like he couldn't believe he had to say it twice.

"That doesn't fix everything either," she said. "You can't just  _make_  me stop being angry. It stops when it stops. And it hasn't yet."

He swallowed, hard. "When I woke up, and you weren't there... I thought you were gone. That you'd left me."

That cut deeply, and she winced. "Because it's what I do?"

"Because it's what  _people_  do."

There was such sincerity in his words, and such vulnerability, that part of her wanted to reconcile on the spot and melt in his arms. But if she did, she'd be leaving herself wide open for manipulation. She bit down on a promise not to leave him – never would she have such a chain around her soul again – and instead said:

"If I ever leave you, I'll make sure to give you advance warning. And I'm not leaving now. I'm going back to the ship, to contemplate the utter  _ass_  I've fallen in love with. I'd prefer to do it alone."

"Very well," he said, the slight traces of a smile playing on his face, though his eyes were still shining with tears.

She nodded, and had started walking away when he called her again.

"Milah!" Turning around, she saw that the smile was now in full bloom. "You said it, after all. That you love me."

"Damned right," she said, and continued walking.

* * *

The ship wasn't empty – it never was – but something of Milah's state of mind must have shown in her demeanour, because the crew gave her space, only acknowledging her presence with brief, friendly nods.

Having eaten, she went to the cargo area, but found it empty. Starkey's notes were lying around, so she took them to double-check, climbing around to count the new packages where she needed to.

That was where Killian found her a while later, two clay pots stacked in his hands.

"Such diligence," he said. "Does that mean you're done contemplating what an ass I am? Or are you contemplating while you work?"

She sighed and stepped down, making a check mark at the piles of stacked fabric. "I'm not angry anymore, if that's what you mean."

"Good. That's good." His smile was downright shy. "I brought you food."

"I've already eaten." But ship's rations wasn't the same as local food, and she stepped closer. "I guess I could try a little more. What is it?"

"Salad," he said, offering her one of the pots. "And some dessert with peach and grains that might have been a pie if it had seen a fire at any point in its creation. The nymphs aren't big on fire."

"So no fire, and only things given freely by the plants."

"Indeed," he said. "They care deeply for their plants – more than they care about people, truth be told."

Milah looked down into her pot. It had various vegetables, some of which she'd never seen before, sprinkled with herbs and, by the scent of it, lemon juice.

The only utensil was a spoon that seemed to be a shard of some kind of large nutshell. She took it and dug some red and green vegetables out of the salad, bringing them to her mouth and trying not to laugh at the way Killian's expectant gaze followed her moves.

She closed her mouth around the tastes – sweet and crisp and tart and soft and spicy, all at once. At first, her palate couldn't make sense of it all. Then she chewed, eagerly.

"That's delicious," she said with her mouth full. Swallowing, she asked, "What are they?"

"Well, that's a tomato," he said, pointing them out. "And that's pepper, avocado, cucumber, lemons..."

"I've seen cucumber before," she protested. "We may have been backwards in our village, but we're not  _that_  backwards. And we have lemons on board. How come we don't have the other things?"

"Harder to stock fresh. We've shipped seed sometimes. Funny thing is, some of these vegetables might be grown from seeds we brought over, back when I first started out. Nysans love new vegetables."

"If that's all they ever eat, they would have to." She scooped up some more of the vegetables and held them out for him. "Open wide!"

He did as told and licked his lips, leaving them moist and red, impossible to resist. As soon as he'd swallowed, she caught his lips in hers, kissing away the taste.

"Hmm, that is the sweetest of flavours," he said, kissing her back. "What is the fruit called?"

"It's called you, sir, are an incorrigible flirt -" She interspersed her speech with more kisses "- and a bastard, but I love you."

"My favourite. I shall have no other."

"Not even this?" she asked, offering him a soft green bit of... avocado, that was the word, which he nibbled from her fingers. He then proceeded to place a tiny tomato between his lips and let her grab it. When she bit into it, it exploded into both of their mouths, spreading its seeds.

A cough interrupted their activities, so polite and discreet that Milah knew who she'd see before she even broke loose from Killian.

"Sorry," she said, doing so and giving Starkey a forced smile. "Hello. I double-checked the stock."

"Thank you." His face was carefully neutral, and it was impossible to tell if their conduct amused or annoyed him.

"I could return to it, if you like."

Killian's hand tightened around her waist, and the slight twitch in Starkey's cheek combined with a slight lift of his eyebrows suggested amusement after all.

"I wouldn't dream of depriving the captain of your company. Though perhaps another venue might be more suitable to your needs?"

"My cabin," Killian said, steering her off. She wondered if she should protest, for decorum if nothing else, but he still had the peach dessert, and the notion of Killian-flavoured peaches was too hard to resist.

She felt butterflies now, tingling all the way out into her fingers, and she wondered if this was what a happy ending felt like.

* * *

Nysa was a more serene place than Atlantis, which meant entertainments were sparse. The crew helped, of course, as did conversation with the locals, aloof though they might be. Ideally, Milah would have spent a lot more time with Killian, but he had his duties to consider just as she had hers, and so after the fruit-fed reconciliation she was left to her own devices again.

Which she didn't mind, not really, but it did seem like a shame to waste the one thing this place truly had going for it, and so the next day, after a round of games with the crew by the food stalls, Milah sneaked off with her sketchbook again.

There was a lake some distance away, various water lilies adorning its surface, and she headed in that direction, trying to find a path that would lead her there. Closer in, she could hear a low hum from the lake, and she wondered if the nymphs were singing, but she couldn't see any. Nor was there any path on the near side, so she tried walking around.

From the west, the plants surrounding the lake weren't as dense. It still wasn't a path, as such, but Milah thought she could make her way through. She gathered her skirts together and started walking through the bushes. There were thorns snagging at her dress, but with a bit of care she could push through them without the fabric ripping.

The hum was louder now. She could see a glimmer inside the water lilies, but plants with large, round leaves blocked her line of sight, and she reached out to brush the leaves aside.

For a second or so, it was just leaves, like any other. Then pain set in, stinging through her arm like a thousand nettles. She gasped in shock, and let go, which slapped the leaves back in her face. Pain spread in her eyes, mouth and nose, and every breath sent the fire deeper into her lungs.

Her knees tried to buckle, but falling now would mean falling  _into_  the plant, and she forced herself to remain upright, stumbling back to where she'd come from, though her eyes stung so badly she couldn't keep her bearings. Too far, now, she wouldn't make it back, but if she fell, what else would be there? She'd waded straight in among the plants, stupid, so stupid of her... Nysa wasn't the Enchanted Forest, not your garden variety nettles, oh no...

Her body screamed to her for air, but forcing it down hurt her further, and the food stalls were still too far away for her to make it.

She tried to scream through the pain in the hope that someone would hear, pushing past the first rasping whisper into a louder noise that sent a taste of blood into her swelling mouth.

As long as she held her skirts together, nothing else could touch her, but it was hard to keep from slipping. A large tree loomed beside her, and she tried to give it a wide berth, but something reached out and wrapped itself around her. Vines – no, arms. Long, green arms, and she stopped fighting, sagging into the nymph's hands.

"I got stung," she mumbled, the words difficult to form around the pain.

"You're not permitted in there," the nymph said. "Didn't the bushes tell you as much?"

Milah tried and failed to figure that one out. "Bushes don't speak," was the conclusion she finally reached.

The nymph sighed. " _Humans_."

"The lilies... The lilies are singing."

"Those are our buds. They do that before they're ready to open. That's why we've got to keep them safe." The nymph sounded mournful as she asked, "And how many plants did you trample on the way?"

Milah remembered the rule about only taking that which was freely given, and what had happened to those thick-headed heroes in her childhood tales. "I'm sorry."

"Well, they gave as good as they got, I suppose." The vine-like arms guided her along. "Poor thing."

The world was blurring, and the sun was much too bright in the sky. Then it wasn't, and everything got darker, browner, with the world doing a strange kind of heave until it settled under her back. She was lying down, on something not very hard, and the nymph was was mixing together a strong-smelling poultice of some sort, while talking to someone just out of sight. She let her eyes drift closed, making the pain at least somewhat bearable.

A wet, cold cloth was placed over her eyes.

"Blink," the nymph said, and Milah obeyed, the burning sensation easing a little as the poultice dripped inside.

Strong hands propped her up, and a small bowl was placed in her good hand.

"Breathe this in. Now, take it into your mouth, but don't swallow. Let it swirl around."

Whatever was in the cup, it tasted awful, but it did take the burning down a notch, and once Milah had spat it out she could finally take the deep breaths her body had been craving. When another cup was put in her hand, she followed the order to drink without delay, and sank back onto the bed, voices becoming little more than echoes in her exhausted brain.

The nymph said something else, a warning of some sort, and Milah hummed in agreement though she had no idea what was being said.

Hands moved over her body, removing her shirt and spreading something warm and sticky over her arm. For a blessed moment, it felt soothing, until it was violently ripped away again and she screamed, much louder than before, bringing the fire back into her throat.

More warm sticky stuff was smeared on her face, and knowing what to expect now, she tried to resist, but to no avail. The poultice was ripped off again, taking the top layer of her skin with it by the feel of it.

At some point, she must have passed out, because when she next heard a voice, it was entirely different, male, with an accent she recognised, though it took her muddled mind a while to find a name.

"Soeng...?"

He shushed her softly. "Mullins is on his way. Itia too. You may have to stay the night here, but that's fine, isn't it? Don't worry, we'll get you back in shape."

"The lilies," she mumbled around the taste of blood and fire in her mouth. "Their buds. Singing."

"Well-guarded, those nymph nurseries, aren't they? Bet you won't make that mistake again."

She tried to shift her position and brushed her arm against the wall, pain flaring up that sent bile into her throat. With Soeng's help, she vomited into what she sincerely hoped was a bowl and not the bedclothes, and then fell back again.

Between the pain and whatever had been in that potion she'd drunk, it was impossible to hold onto consciousness for any length of time. Figures long dead and gone showed up and spoke to her, even her father in his funeral clothes, condemning her from blue lips. Voices mocked and called to her, and she tried to call them back, clung to the hand of... of... she didn't know, but she grasped it hard enough that the cold metal rings dug into her palm, which was nothing,  _nothing_  in comparison with her other arm, and all those people coming at her, clawing at her face.

Beyond the loud condemnation from her family and peers, she heard some kind of heated argument, and then she was moved over to another surface, a horrible one that rocked and jolted her, until finally she was placed on some sort of bed. She was met with a smell that was salty and wooden, and strangely like home, and with a shaky breath of relief, she fell asleep.

When she next woke, someone had set fire to her eyes, and she shot up straight, screaming.

"Take them out! Take them out!  _Please_  help me, somebody!"

She tried to take her eyes out herself, but was held back, forced down into lying position, and sharp ropes tied around her wrists, eating into her injured arm. Though she screamed and begged for them to let her go, the only release she got was a cup pressed against her lips, and she drank forgetfulness and sleep, coughing between the sips because the fire wouldn't stop.

"Milah." A soft voice in her ear, a good voice, and a hand in her hair. She threw her head back, sobbing, leaning into the touch. "Milah, can you be brave? You'll ride this out, love, but you need to be brave. Can you do that for me? Can you be a brave, strong pirate lass?"

She bit down on her screams and made her body be still, shaken only by her silent sobs. The hand in her hair at least was something to focus on beside the pain, and it brought her back to childhood sickbeds.

"Mama," she mumbled. "Oh, Bae... Bae, I'm so sorry. I failed you."

But this was a man's hand, and just before the world faded away again, she found the name she'd been looking for.

"Killian," she whispered, and that was the last thing she knew.


	9. Chapter 9

When she finally woke to a clear head and manageable levels of pain, her hands were still tied and her eyes bandaged. All around her there was a faint smell of sweat – her own sweat, judging by the state of the blanket. The world heaved under her, and it was only when she heard the splash of waves against the wall that she realised the movement was not all in her mind. The _Jolly Roger_ was in motion.

From the other direction, she could hear breaths, and asked a shaky, "Hello?"

"Hello," said a voice with a Ruritanian accent. "Feeling better?"

"Foggerty. What... what are you doing here?"

"The same thing you are. Recuperating. Though it hasn't been easy, these past few days." There was a tinge of amusement to his voice now.

"You were hurt," she remembered. "Badly. Are you better now?"

"Probably better than you, at this point. I've never touched a stinging tree, but I think I prefer the sword. It might kill you, but if it fails, it doesn't make you want to finish the job yourself."

He sounded remarkably chipper for someone she knew for a fact had been close to death. No lasting damage, then. Her own breathing felt a lot easier too, and her arm didn't hurt much unless she tried to move it, which left only one major problem.

"My eyes..."

"Those nymphs are _good_ at healing. Bloody have to be, with plants like that around. I shouldn't worry, if I were you."

Despite the soothing words, she was desperate to get the bandages off, and since her hands weren't free she rubbed her face against the bed. Terrible mistake, as pain flared up again and made her hiss.

"Mullins!" Foggerty called.

Steps came running towards them.

"Ah, you're awake," Mullins said, and then the bandages were finally removed.

She blinked, and hissed again as Mullins brought a lit candle close to her face. "That hurts!"

"Of course it does, you haven't been exposed to light for three days." He took hold of her raw skin and held her eyes open, regardless of the way the tears ran down her aching cheeks. "Looking good. A bit puffy, but that's to be expected. No lasting damage that I can see."

That didn't stop her from wanting desperately to shield her running eyes from the light, and she tugged at the ropes around her wrists – something she regretted when the pain flared up again in her right one. "Will you let me go?"

"Yes, I think we can risk it, now." He untied her, and she flexed her hands, before propping herself up in seated position. As long as she held the right arm in her lap rather than trying to use it, it wasn't so bad.

Mullins handed her a cup of water, and she drank thirstily, not even minding the customary tinge of vinegar.

"Itia told me the nymphs have now salted the earth around the nursery, outside the bushes."

"Salted...?"

"Creating a barrier that plants don't like to cross." He smirked, watching her grasp the meaning of that.

"But that wouldn't..." she started.

"I know. I didn't have the heart to tell her humans wouldn't even notice. They don't really go in for fences and walls, around here. But I did suggest that they might want to plant some nettles among the thornbushes. That should be enough to keep the curious out before they get to the big artillery. In case someone else forgets to warn their mates." He made an apologetic grimace and patted her softly on the uninjured arm."I'll tell the captain you're awake."

After Mullins left, it occurred to Milah that her current state wasn't exactly suited for romantic endeavours – damp-haired and stinking of sweat, and if her face was anywhere near as swollen as her arm she must look a sight. None of that could quench her giddiness at the promise of having Killian back by her side, though. She patted down her hair as best as she could, and as he entered the sick bay, gave him a grateful smile.

He stared at her for a moment, sagging against the doorway, and then his jaw set and his nostrils flared.

"Don't _ever_ do that again!" he said, striding into the room.

"Do what? Slap myself in the face with a poisonous plant? I'll try my best not to, thanks."

"Don't go off on your own like that! What were you thinking?"

"I just wanted to see the lake," she said, rankled at the thought that she needed a nursemaid at all times.

"Just wanted to see the lake," he repeated, louder with every word, and stepped close enough to her that even in dim light, with aching eyes, she could see his nostrils flare. "Just wanted to see a bloody nymph birthplace, off limits to visitors and guarded by plants filled with lethal poison!"

"Well, how was I supposed to know?" she asked, getting irate at the way he denied her the romantic attention she felt was much more suitable at a sickbed than a bunch of yelling. "Nobody told me there'd be lethal plants!"

"Funny, I seem to recall mentioning lethal plants less than a week ago!"

That did a little something to remind her of the reasons behind his anger, but she still found his reaction disproportionate. "You let me go off and rob navy ships. I could have died then."

"That's different, that's a calculated risk. If you're going to get yourself killed, at least get yourself killed for a good cause!"

"Well, I'd rather not be killed at all, if it's all the same to you," she said, "but I'm not going to stop living my life in fear of death, either."

He stared at her, and then sank down on his knees, reaching out a trembling hand to cradle the back of her head.

"You scared me," he mumbled.

"I know," she said, and then as he kissed her temple, "Ow. Ow, ow, ow!"

He drew back immediately and breathed in between his teeth in sympathetic apology. "Sorry."

"As soon as I feel better we'll get right back to that stuff," she said. "All right?"

"All right."

"The very moment."

"I shall note it as a top priority in my calendar," he promised, interlacing his fingers with hers. Bringing her unblemished hand to his lips, he kissed that instead.

From the other bed, Foggerty muttered, "Never mind me, I'll just lie here and try not to listen, that's all."

"You serve at the pleasure of your captain," Killian said, eyes still on Milah. He smiled. "Sometimes that involves having to listen to lovesick reconciliations."

* * *

Though Milah was feeling much better, she wasn't yet ready to be returned to her own cabin, much less get back to work, and it made the hours long and dull. Foggerty was a cheery bloke, but his wound still made him tired, and after the screaming she'd subjected her to during her delirium, she rather thought she ought to let him sleep when he needed it.

She asked for her sketchbook, thinking she could make some attempt to draw with her left hand, but the end result was so abysmal that she switched back to her dominant one, biting down to endure the resulting pain for at least a few minutes at a time.

"That's not doing you any good," Mullins commented when he saw her do it.

"Will it hurt me?" she asked.

"Long term? No."

"Well, then. I have to do something." But the burning soon became too much to take, and she threw the pencil down in disgust.

Maybe that was the reason Billy Jukes was soon sent down to wait on her. She would have protested the treatment as unnecessary, had she not known that the alternative was that he waited on Killian, who, she had to admit, would have much less need for it.

Jukes, eager to please, got her a book from Killian's cabin, though she soon tired of it; the naval warfare strategy was much too technical, with too many long and dry words for her to understand. She hadn't paid enough attention to Killian's book shelf to know if there was something more suitable she could ask for. Most likely, the boy couldn't read anyway and had only picked something with a nice cover. Of course, she could have asked for the book of Atlantean pictures lying in her own box of things, but her eyes were starting to ache, and so instead she patted the side of her bed.

"Sit down," she said. "Talk. How did you end up in this place?"

"Well, the captain asked for volunteers to join the ship," he said, puzzled. "You were there for that part."

"I know. I meant before that. You were in the navy, right? How come?"

He scratched the back of his neck and squirmed in his seat. "Had to do something, after my papa died. I'd run errands for some of the officers, so it wasn't hard making them let me on board, but..." His eyes got lost far away, but soon found their way back, and whatever he'd seen, he shook it off. "It's better here. Better pay, too."

"Terrific pay," she agreed. "Tell me more. Tell me of home."

So he did. He told her of his mother and his little brothers and sisters, and their one-cow farm, and it all sounded nice and normal, enough to make her wonder what that lovely little family would think of the oldest boy becoming a pirate. What had happened on that ship, to make him consider this the better option?

His face was vivid and bright as he told her a story about one of the hens trying to hide its eggs, and she reached for the sketchbook again.

"May I draw you?" she asked. "Or try to. We'll have to take it slow."

"I suppose," he said, colour rising in his face. After a moment's hesitation, he asked, "Say, could you... could you draw something that's not real?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"Well, could you draw me fighting a sea monster or something?"

Milah smiled. "You'll have to tell me what the sea monster looks like, then."

Sea monsters were a new experience, but fun to try, though she could only manage one or maybe two tentacles at a time and intersperse it with conversation. As the picture grew to some sort of likeness, Foggerty had woken up, and Jukes darted between the beds, soliciting suggestions.

They were not yet finished when Teynte arrived with a tray of food.

"Mealtime," she said. "Good to see you feeling better."

Jukes halted, instantly ashamed. "I was supposed to fetch that."

"Well, you didn't, so I did," she said, handing one bowl to Milah and one to Foggerty. Her hand, once free, brushed against Milah's hair – a light caress, but more than she usually gave.

Milah would have liked to return the favour, but needed her strength to manage the bowl, which she placed in her lap. In order to do that, she had to put the sketchbook aside at the edge of the bed, where Teynte fished it up.

"A fearsome warrior indeed," Teynte said, the corners of her mouth refusing to stay still.

"I'm sure she'd draw you in if you asked her," Jukes suggested eagerly. "Wouldn't you, milady?"

"I think she needs to rest," Teynte said.

Milah couldn't argue with that – even the heat of the food bowl caused the fire in her hand to flare up – but she said, "You could just stay and talk for a while?"

"I'm _working_ ," Teynte said with a snort of laughter, but she did lean in closer and whispered: "Though it's nice to know you haven't entirely replaced me."

"I could never," Milah said with emphasis, though with a tinge of guilt, because the gaping hole she was trying to fill with this tadpole of a boy wasn't Teynte's at all. And of course she knew that it was unfair to Jukes to place that burden on his shoulders, one he could never live up to. She could only ever make new room for people, not replace the old ones.

Still, their presence by her bedside made all the difference in the world.

* * *

The next day, Mullins declared her well enough to leave the bed, and he barely had time to get the words out before she'd swung her legs over the edge, pain and headrush be damned.

Her feet were wobbly and it took considerable effort to heave herself up the stairs, but once she was up there, her aching eyes blinking against the overcast sky, it was all worth it for the scent of fresh ocean air in her lungs.

Most duties up on deck were too heavy for her at the moment, but Mullins talked to Soeng, who talked to Bilal, who placed her with a barrel of gunpowder that needed to be sieved, which she could manage with her left hand, and occasionally with her eyes closed.

After a while, Killian found her there, and instantly hovered. "Should you be up here?"

"Yes," she said with emphasis.

"Does Mullins..."

"Mullins said it's fine," she said. "I'm officially off bed rest."

Killian's eyes drifted to Bilal in search of confirmation, which irritated her – as if her word wasn't good enough for him.

"Well, if you decide that you need a rest, my cabin is at your disposal," he said. "It's more comfortable than either yours or the sickbay."

He seemed perfectly sincere, but with Killian, few suggestive remarks were ever accidental, so she cleared her throat and beckoned him closer with a jut of her chin.

"I'm not up to sharing a bed with you yet," she said quietly and with some regret.

"Who said anything about sharing?" he asked. "It's all yours until you feel better."

His eyes, so very serious, made her heart race and her body heat, so in an attempt to make light of the situation, she said, "Perhaps Foggerty would have more need for it."

"Foggerty can go hang," he said. "Allow a man to indulge his paramour."

With that, he walked off before she could argue. She glanced over at Bilal, who smiled.

"That's a sweet offer. If you don't take him up on it, I might." When she scoffed at that, he fluttered his eyelashes in a demure look. "I'm a dainty enough morsel."

Despite his teasing, she remained with her mission until mealtime, and then spent an hour doing work for Starkey, until she had to admit to herself that she was too tired to continue.

Returning to sickbay would have felt like defeat, and the captain's cabin was right next to hers, with a more comfortable bed and actual daylight. The temptation was too much to resist, and she sneaked into the room, feeling like she was doing something forbidden even though she'd been explicitly invited.

The place looked so bare that she suspected Jukes had implemented his navy-standard cleaning onto Killian's belongings. The room itself was so impeccably white that it made her skin crawl. Killian usually threw things around a bit more. The main item out of place was her. She spotted herself in the mirror above the bed and winced at the sight. She hadn't realized that the skin of her face was just as blotchy as on her arm, or that her eyes were quite so bloodshot, or... Frowning, she moved in closer. No eyebrows. The poultice that had ripped out the stingers from her skin had ripped out those too.

No wonder, then, that he had been so ready to declare that she could have the bed to herself. Who in their right mind would want to sleep with something like that? Compared to her current appearance, Bilal was indeed a dainty morsel. Still she smiled, because Killian had indicated none of that in his offer. Her peeling skin hadn't scared him off any more than her hot and cold behaviour had. Heavens knew what he saw in her.

She wandered along the windows, brushing her fingers across his books. Thick tomes, most of them, and she opened a few at random but found them too technical to read. At last she found _History of the Realms_ , an old acquaintance, and settled down with that on the bed.

With her need for frequent breaks, it was slow going, and she was still at the first chapter when Killian came down. His face brightened when he saw her, and when he tossed his coat aside, his eyes were still on her.

"How are you feeling, love?"

"Good," she said, because the rest had helped enough that she had hopes, if the progression kept up, she'd be able to manage a full day of work soon.

"I thought you'd be sleeping, didn't mean to disturb..." he said, pulling up a chair next to her. At the sight of the volume in her hand, he smiled. "That's one of my old school books."

"Mine too. Though I seem to have forgotten a lot of it."

"I don't think I learned it at all, back then. Now, of course, is a different matter."

He patted his knee and gave Milah a suggestive but somewhat tentative glance, as if he wasn't sure approaching her was permissible. Book still in hand, she sat down on his lap, and he closed his arm around her waist.

"Do you read a lot, then?" she asked.

"They're my brother's books mostly. But yes, I've read them. I haven't always had this pleasant company to distract me."

His fingers were running along the hem of her collar, stroking her neck, and he leaned in to kiss her ear, gently. "Is this all right?"

She hummed her agreement and leaned into his touch. Every movement was cautious and gentle, finding the spots that led to pleasure rather than pain, and she marvelled at how he seemed to know exactly which areas to avoid. Then she remembered why that was, and laughed a little.

"Something wrong?" he asked, unbuttoning her blouse so he could kiss the top of her bosom.

"Just... you're still wooing me, when I look like this."

"You look fine from here," he said, still gazing into her cleavage, and she elbowed him lightly in the ribs. "Ow!"

"You're supposed to say it doesn't matter," she scolded.

"Oh. Well, it doesn't matter, then." He leaned down to kiss her breastbone. "Anyway, it's temporary."

"What if it weren't? What if I were disfigured for life? Would you still keep me on?" It was a childish game, putting him on the spot like that, and judging by the frown he gave her as he raised his head, he thought so too.

"This is a tad morbid for casual conversation, don't you think, love?"

"Answer the question," she said and prodded at his foot with hers.

He sighed and shifted her position on his knee. "When you're eighty, you'll be wrinkly and toothless and look much worse than this. As will I, for that matter. So in the long run, it's all the same, isn't it?"

The answer stunned her into silence, and his frown deepened.

"Was that inadequate? Should I extract my foot from my mouth?"

"No," she said, bending forward to kiss his hair so that he couldn't see her face. "It's perfect."

Perfect, and terrifying. Where she was still struggling to handle their present, he was projecting a future stretching through their entire lives. If he returned the question, she didn't know how to respond without swearing herself to him in a way she couldn't possibly live up to. Her life was finally her own, and this beautiful boy had already declared himself a permanent part of it. The comfort of knowing that he wouldn't leave her also meant that he _wouldn't leave her_ , and did he even understand the consequences of that? But if she told him, she'd risk losing him here and now, and that thought was unbearable.

She kissed his hair again, her hands caressing his back in long strokes, and he did not return the question. Instead he asked, with hope in his voice:

"I know you can't let me bed you, but is there something we might be able to do...?"

And then, of course, there were the times when his undying devotion was mitigated by sheer lewdness.

"I don't want you bumping my arm," she said tenderly. "Or my nose, or forehead, or..."

"Well," he said, and guided her off his lap and onto the chair so he could kneel by her feet and lift up her skirt. "I can't bump any of it from down here, can I?"

When his meaning sank in, she found herself too intrigued to protest. The times a man had offered his mouth in her service were few and far between, and never down on his knees like this.

"What should I do?" she asked.

His hands took a firm grip around her hips and scooted her forward a bit on the chair.

"Just let me savour this, love, and there's nothing else you need to do."

With that command, he fell silent, kissing his way up her thigh, and she steadied herself against the table as the light, beard-rough touches brought warm shivers across her body and made wetness spread between her legs.

From her position, she was unable to reciprocate the sensation. Even his head was covered by her skirt. Her uninjured left hand was holding onto the table – this truly wasn't the best position for carnal activities – but she clumsily caressed him with her right through the thick cloth.

Even after all this time, her body remembered, and reacted with a strength of passion that made it hard not to scream out loud. Careful of her still sore throat, as well as the men outside, she didn't dare to, but her head was thrown back and her toes curled, and right then, all she wanted was for this glorious man to be hers forever.

When the pulsating sensation became too much to stand, she gently pushed him off and let it take her over, until it ebbed and she leaned back, gasping for breath.

His face appeared again, hair tousled and lips red, as he let her skirt fall into its usual position. Without a word, she grabbed him and hauled him up towards her, kissing him fiercely and without care for her smarting nose or any other part of her that might ache. Her own flavour, strange to the taste, was still in his mouth, and she kissed it off as the last shivers of his touch still teased her body.

Eager to return the favour somehow, she took to work on his trousers, tight, impossible bastards that he had to help her remove. Her hand closed around his cock, and his hand around her hand. The two of them started to move in unity to bring him to the same release he'd given her.

Jukes's voice called from outside, "Captain?"

"Not right now, Jukes!" Killian called back, half-choked.

"We should stop," Milah said, and started moving her hand away, but Killian's held it on automatically.

"Have some bloody mercy, woman," he gritted out, and she laughed quietly, returning to their activities.

He was spent quicker than she had been, and stood leaning over the table, breathing heavily.

"Are you done?" she asked. "Should we see what he wanted?"

Slowly, Killian's eyes opened.

"Could you stay for one minute before rushing off, love?" he asked. "Just this once?"

"I thought it seemed serious, that's all."

"He's here to serve us, not the other way around. Stop mollycoddling him."

That rankled, and Milah drew herself back a little. "He's just a child."

"Doesn't mean he needs to be mothered."

"What, you'd rather that I mothered you?"

All she'd meant was that he acted childish, but she heard what the comment sounded like and felt like mirroring Killian's grimace.

"Well, there goes the mood," he said, starting to pull his trousers up.

"I didn't mean... I'm not even old enough to be your mother. Not quite."

"Not remotely," he countered with more heat than accuracy. "My mother is... don't even start on those comparisons."

"I am older," she reminded him, because they never talked about that, and surely he must notice it sometimes, just as she did.

"Not that old." He finished with his trousers and moved on to put on his coat. "I've got a sister about your age. And a brother even older."

"You do?" That fascinated her, since he'd never mentioned any family outside his brother Liam. Then again, it wasn't as though she discussed her own with him. "What's her name?"

"Eileen."

"What's she like?"

His eyes darted towards the door, his desire to have her stay longer clearly quenched. For a moment, it seemed like he would refuse to answer. Then he said, "Blonde."

"That's it? Blonde?"

"I don't know. We weren't raised together."

This gave another layer of mystery to his curt answers, and she wondered, suddenly, if he was illegitimate. That would explain a lot, really, and wasn't a subject to be broached like this.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to pry."

His shoulders sank, and he gave her a tired smile. "That's all right, lass. Now, do you want to talk to your cabin boy, or shall we have a moment of peace yet?"

"Perhaps a brief moment," she said, returning his smile.

* * *

A few days later, Milah was well enough to return to her ordinary duties. There was a minor skirmish where the _Roger_ overtook a courier, but she remained below deck and noticed little of it. The next day Mason appeared in the cargo bay and tossed her a sword.

"Time for practice," he said.

She caught the sword with some reluctance. "I'm not fully recovered yet."

"Navy sailors won't ask if you're recovered or not."

Milah turned to Starkey, who looked ready to protest, but then only shook his head in silence. Bewildered, she followed Mason up on deck.

To her surprise, Jukes was already there, holding a smallish backsword so hard his knuckles whitened.

"Thought we'd give him a few pointers," said Mason, seeing Milah's expression.

She wasn't so sure of the "we" in that statement, and Jukes' wide-eyed nervousness brought back her recent murder in too vivid colours. On the other hand, she couldn't back off and give the boy a poor view of piracy, so she gripped her own sword and forced herself to ignore both the stinging of her fingers and the knot in her stomach.

It made sense, of course, to pit her against Jukes. For a boy of his age, Mason would seem even more massive than to an adult, while Milah was a better match in size and injured to boot. At first this was a bit of a drawback as well, since Jukes was hesitant to fight her and kept calling her "madam". After a while, though, he got his energy up and started attacking for real, making it a proper training session, if a somewhat more relaxed one than she was used to.

Mason mostly stuck to giving them pointers, occasionally staging an attack to get their game up a little. When Teynte passed by and slowed her steps to watch what they were doing, he called to her: "Oi! Get yourself over here and help out!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" she said, knocking her heels together and giving her a mock salute before she disappeared below deck, returning a little while later with her sword.

Having all four of them together like this turned the fighting into a fun exercise, the serious nature of its purpose only evident when Mason pushed them to continue even when they got tired, and Milah's arm started to ache, and then her lungs. In the end, the sword dropped from her numb fingers, and he reluctantly allowed a pause.

"I suppose if you hold out this long, you're likely to survive an attack," he said grudgingly.

"We're going in, then?" Teynte asked, passing the water bottle over to Jukes.

"If _she's_ up to it," Mason said, nodding towards Milah, "why wouldn't we?"

"Going in where?" Milah asked.

"That courier we overtook carried documents about navy fleet movements," Teynte said. "We could pluck the ships like cherries, except the captain..."

She fell silent and gave Mason a quick nod as Ryan, the first mate, came near.

Mason, having spotted the man as well, got back up on his feet. "Right then, you three! Break's over, come up and give me your best!"

Milah returned to her feet and closed her burning hand against the hilt again.

"The captain what?" she asked. "Doesn't he want to attack?"

Mason didn't reply, and Teynte waited until Ryan was out of earshot before she said:

"He doesn't want to risk _you_ , you goose. Ryan's furious with him. First he spent most of what we'd traded in Nysa to get you medicine, and now he's dragging his feet when it comes to gaining more funds."

It hadn't occurred to Milah what her medicines would cost the crew, much less any lasting effects of her convalescence. Ryan had never been among her friends, it was true, but he'd never been an enemy either, just a presence among the others. But if he got angry enough, and the others weren't being paid what they thought they were due...

"Will there be trouble?" she asked, not wanting to say the word "mutiny" in fear of being overdramatic – or worse, _right_.

"Shouldn't think so," Mason said. "Captain's too popular."

"Might make things uncomfortable for you, though," Teynte filled in. "So we need to show them that you're more than a pretty face, all right? You don't want to get between those two."

"In the Navy, they say it's bad luck to have a woman on board," Jukes piped up.

Teynte turned on him with a gleaming, wicked smile. "Say that again, and this woman will take your manhood."

"I didn't mean..." he squealed. "You're a formidable fighter. Both of you. Honestly!"

"Leave him alone, Teynte," Milah said. Her eyes sought out Mason's. "So I'll fight, then."

"Yuh," he said. "And maybe prod your lover a bit. Tell him how eager you are to attack a Navy vessel again."

She wasn't, and she figured he knew that, but this was a pirate ship, and it was her job to make life on board run smoothly. "Very well," she said, swallowing the lump of dread. "I will."

* * *

Convincing Killian was easier than she'd thought. She wasn't a good actress at the best of times, but all she had to do was to ask, during one of their relaxed conversations in his cabin:

"Isn't it time we attacked a ship soon? I'm starting to miss it, you know."

He agreed with a readiness that made her suspect Teynte was right – it _had_ been for her sake that he held back.

And so, two days later, she stood ready at the gunwale, sword in hand and patch over her eye, stomach churning at the sight of the young men in white uniforms lining up on the other side.

When they got on board, she held back, wondering if perhaps she should remain on deck after all and join in the fighting there, but she got a gentle shove from Mason and a grumbled:

"You three, stick together!"

Strictly speaking, of course, he couldn't order her around, but she trusted his judgement and followed Teynte as she retreated downstairs, Jukes in tow.

The path was narrow between the cabins, especially with so many pirates and sailors crowding the place, and Milah wished desperately that Navy vessels weren't quite so standardized. This was a smaller ship than she'd been on before, but still too similar, more so than the _Jolly Roger_ which had years of piracy adapting its appearance.

Men in uniform were fighting her crew mates, and the mass of bodies pushed her closer to the action. She brandished her sword and defended herself from the nearest sailor, warding him off with her sword without ever really getting anywhere. Further along, she could see Jukes, bravely using every move in his repertoire against an enemy both bigger and better trained, who wouldn't take long to...

Well, like hell was she going to let _that_ happen.

Without thinking, she finished the job with the sailor at hand and moved on toward Jukes, forcing his opponent up against the wall, until a low beam hit the back of his head and knocked him out.

"Are you all right?" she asked Jukes, stepping over the unconscious body.

He swallowed. "Yes'm."

A low whistle of appreciation from behind told them where Teynte was at, and they rejoined her, searching the cabins for all the loot they could find. Milah kept guard, securing the other two against any enemy that looked like it'd prove too much for them – though Teynte, for the most part, didn't need her help.

When they were called back on board, gathering up the surviving navy crew for the traditional speech, Milah carried two extra swords and a lighter heart than she'd had in weeks.

"How did you know I could do it for their sakes?" she asked Mason, quietly so as to not disturb the speech.

"Got three lads of my own," he reminded her. "See over there?"

She raised her eyes and saw what he was pointing at: the faint outline of a shore in the mist.

"Tir na nÓg," he said proudly. "Want to meet my family?"

At home, she'd never heard much of Tir na nÓg. Travellers from there sometimes made it to the Enchanted Forest, and it was famed for its magic users, but that was all she knew. The island had never featured in her dreams, the way the cities of Atlantis had, or the technical wonders of Wakanda, or desert islands far, far away.

The way Mason spoke of it, though, had a magic all of its own, and she'd heard a similar note whenever Killian brought up the subject, which was not often. The dim, grey shape in front of her took on the glamour of a promised land.

"I'd be honoured," she said.


	10. Chapter 10

As they approached Tir na nÓg, a light but persistent rain made the world grey and anything beyond the shoreline hard to see. Milah wrapped her coat around herself and shuddered a little in the wind. They hadn't been this far north since harvest month, and while there had been rain before, this weather seemed particularly unwelcoming. Maybe it was the too-familiar fields and and trees, but whatever the reason, the reluctance in her steps as she left the ship wasn't entirely down to the slippery gangplank.

As usual, they made their way to a local inn, this time with somewhat more of a sense of hurry, and ordered a warm meal. The heat of the fire meant they could shed their coats and shake the damp out of their clothes, and the low ceiling and dark wooden walls made the whole place seem more like the galley on the _Jolly Roger_ than anything else. When the food arrived, though, it was much better than what you could get on board ship, a simple yet savoury meat pie served with truly excellent beer.

The first half hour or so was spent in dedicated eating, and then the dice were brought out. While fees hadn't yet been paid from the recent loot, what remained from previous attacks was enough to keep the game interesting. Milah joined in the game at first, but luck wasn't on her side, and rather than giving up any of the few possessions she called her own, she bowed out and contented herself with watching.

Killian had been up by the door, and when he returned he sneaked an arm around Milah's waist and whispered, "The rain's stopped. Care to take a walk with me?"

It wouldn't have been on top of her current list of things to do, but the ardour in his voice raised her curiosity, and she grabbed her coat to go.

Once outside, he took her hand and led her past the huddle of houses by the shore, up to the farms beyond, and then along a muddy track up a hill. She followed obediently, waiting for an explanation or, failing that, some intimacy.

Instead, when her coat had soaked up most of the after-rain dampness and her boots were twice as heavy as usual, he stopped at the top of the hill.

"Here we are, love," he said, wrapping his arms around her.

She looked down the hill at the village below, then turned her gaze inland, to the trees and the river, searching for whatever it was he wanted her to see. Instead, she became increasingly aware of the way the hem of her damp dress smeared against her ankle.

"Am I looking for anything in particular?" she asked cautiously.

His shoulder sank a little.

"Just... the hills, and the way the river moves through them, and the trees against the sky..." He gestured towards them. "You don't like it."

She tried to like it. It was a hill. Quite possibly, it was a nice hill. On a warm summer day, when the sun was shining over the river and the grass was full of flowers, it might have been a hill she'd like to draw. Right now, not so much.

"It's just the weather," she excused herself. "I'm sure it's lovely otherwise."

"Well, it's no Atlantis, I'll admit," he tried to joke, but she could see the disappointment on his face. "But I used to be able to stay here for hours. Running across the hills, wading through the river, climbing the trees."

The longing in his voice told her the truth, and she could have kicked herself.

"This is your home."

"My _home_ is the _Jolly Roger_ ," he corrected. "But aye, for many years, when I spoke of home, this is what I meant."

That was a whole lot more interesting than trees and rivers. "Where did you live? Show me!"

"Oh, down there in the village, mostly. We came and went. But my grandmother lived over there." He spun her around and indicated a glen by the forest, where the river ran by. "I'd stay at her house and go out in the forest to play. She was a charming lady, but not always keen to have children running around. 'Off you go, then' she'd say and brush me out the door, but she always had a cup of hot currant juice ready for me when I got back home. Of course, there are other people living there now. She's been dead for many years."

Never before had she heard him speak of his past with such evident joy, and she stuck her hand back in his. "Show me where you used to play!"

He squeezed her hand, and they ran together down the hill along the river to the forest, as he pointed out various trees, crooks in the river, and hidden spots under an upturned tree or by a thornbush.

"You must have loved it here," she said.

"I did," he agreed, breathing heavily. "Now, is my lady satisfied, or shall nothing satisfy you but the home of the fairies? I don't know that I can risk it – the fairies are nowhere near as hospitable as the nymphs, and we know how well that worked out."

She smacked him lightly on the back of the head, but asked, "Is there really a fairy land bordering this?"

"There is. It's a bit all over the place – you know what fairies are like – but there's an entrance not far from here."

"Have you been there? What's it like?"

"Hard to say." He leaned against a tree and fiddled with his fingers, deep in thought. "They throw glamours over it, you see. Its true nature is secret from mortals and so it looks how you'd want it to look – like everything you'd ever dreamed of and yet like nothing at all. Anyone going had better have their affairs sorted first."

The 'because they might not come back' was evident from his face, and though she was tempted, she smiled and relented at his serious expression.

"I suppose following in the footsteps of young Killian Jones is adventure enough. Or is it Kit Newport?"

She regretted her words when his back instantly tensed, but after a moment he drew a long, shaky breath and relaxed.

"Mason told you."

She nodded quietly.

"Aye. It was Kit Newport, then." The way he spoke the name was less like the gentleman's Avalonian he normally used, and more like how Mason might have said it. In fact, there was a subtle shift in his vowels altogether.

When he didn't elaborate any further, she pointed it out: "You sound like Mason, here."

The melancholy expression his other name had brought out was replaced with a wide grin. "I suppose I do. This place creeps back in. Bit less gruff than him, I hope."

"Where did you pick up the Avalonian accent?" she asked.

"School. Then the navy."

That was an inadequate explanation, since Tir na nÒg didn't serve under the Avalonian navy, but she didn't push.

"What about you?" he asked. "Where did you pick up yours?"

"A misguided attempt to better myself."

"Why misguided?"

"Because I did it for a man." She didn't want to speak of this, but after the way he had opened up she supposed it was only fair, and after all he had to know sometime.

"A man? Not your husband."

"No. This was before my husband. I was sixteen. Well, when it started, I was sixteen. We were together for two years. I was a shopgirl, and his father owned the shop. Several shops, actually. He was a rich merchant."

"I think I know this story," Killian said in a low voice.

"Everyone knows this story," she said, unable to meet his eyes. "It's just when you're young, you don't think it applies to you. It's different for us, you think. He truly loves me, he'll defy convention and marry me. Except what always happens is that the rich man marries a suitable woman, and the shopgirl is left alone... and in trouble."

Killian inhaled sharply. "Your son."

"No." That made her smile despite herself. "I told you, I was much younger. I went to see a witch, and she took care of the problem."

Saying it made it sound easy, but that witch had taken every last penny Milah had got, and she'd had to beg Alma for help. Back in the days when it was still a blessing to have a sister, before Alma became a widow along with Gerald's wife and practically every young woman in the village.

"I remember when his wife had her firstborn," she continued. "Years later. I think it was difficult for them... but the child was healthy enough. Looked a lot like him, actually. I'd left the shop, then, but it was warm enough for them to go outside and sit in the sun, with a nursemaid in tow, and I saw them there. I thought I was over him by then, but all I could think was, 'that ought to have been my baby'. And when Rumpelstiltskin proposed... you know, it's funny, it was that same evening. I knew he was a kind man, that he'd never hurt me, and I felt so lonely I loved him just for being there. Maybe if I hadn't been... but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. I guess it's all down to bad timing."

"Is it?" Killian asked, and there was a pensive tone to his words that made her look up.

The judgement she had feared was absent – which, considering that he'd eloped with a married woman and had a prostitute for a cook, only made sense. But she couldn't figure out that expression of his.

"Isn't it?"

"I'm not an expert," he said, "but as I understand it, the timing of a man's proposal is rarely down to accident."

The notion that Rumpelstiltskin would deliberately have chosen to propose when she missed Gerald the most made her blood run cold, but she shook it off. For one thing, he would have had to know about that affair, and he hadn't – had he? For another... "No. He'd never do that. That would take such cruel cunning. Whatever he is, he's a good man."

A flash of jealousy showed in Killian's eyes. Perhaps she'd emphasized her husband's virtues too much, but she had to, to rid herself of the image he'd given her.

"Oh well," he said. "I suppose you know him better than I do."

He turned away, and she reached out for him, taking his face in her hands.

"Killian. Love."

Slowly, the scowl faded from his face and he treaded his fingers through her hair.

"Third time's lucky," he said with the attempt of a smile.

"Third time is absolutely lucky," she agreed, and kissed him.

* * *

They walked back hand in hand, Killian gently stroking her still tender skin.

"We're setting up headquarters in the inn," he said. "It's a nice room, I've used it before, the bed's quite comfortable compared to the _Jolly Roger_."

"Who have you been using it with?" she teased, and he gave her a reproachful pout.

"That's _not_ what I meant. Just that..." his fingers stroke the back of her hand. "Are you recovered enough to share a bed, if it's a larger bed than the one in my cabin?"

"Ah." She sneaked a little bit closer and kissed the side of his neck under the ear. While holding his hand like this was painless by now, more forceful bumps still smarted under her skin, but she had missed full carnal encounters just as much as he had. "As long as you don't lean too heavily on my arm."

"If you ride me," he said, lewdness dripping in every word, "I shan't have to lean on anything."

She laughed. Though she'd always quite enjoyed the freedom of riding a man, neither one of her previous lovers had _craved_ it the way Killian did. Perhaps it was the sheer laziness of lying back and taking whatever she dealt him; perhaps, and more likely, it was his way to unload the burden of captainhood. Either way, she wasn't about to complain, especially when his eyes lit up like that.

"Sounds like a plan," she said.

The headquarters were already filled with pirates and their prospective business partners. Killian halted in the doorway and offered up his best smile, which made Starkey close his book and draw nearer to the door. Mullins, on the other hand, only sighed, and Ryan crossed his arms. Judging by his expression, and the expressions of the locals, this wouldn't be solved with lightning-speed charm alone.

Seeing that, Milah pulled back and whispered, "I'll give you some time to sort things out."

He reached for her as she left, but his fingers only brushed against her, a farewell gesture rather than an attempt to make her stay.

"Gentlemen," she heard him say as she headed down the corridor. "How can I help you?"

Downstairs, the inn was filling up with people, many of whom were strangers to her, presumably locals. There was the usual smattering of bar wenches, but it was a woman of a different type who caught her attention. Dressed in a demure yellow-green dress and bonnet, with a wide-set face and slightly bulging eyes under the greying hair, the woman in question gave off the impression of a benevolent frog, and she was currently in deep conversation with Mason.

Milah's disappointment in her shoreleave gave way for curiosity at the sight of the woman, and she stepped up to the couple. "Hello. You must be Mason's wife. I'm Milah."

"Lizzy," the woman said, looking lost for a second before she caught on: "Oh, right, the Captain's lass! I thought you'd be younger. Sorry, I didn't mean... you look lovely."

She sounded like she meant it, despite the still-mottled skin on Milah's face, and Milah answered in full honesty as well: "So do you."

The bright smile Lizzy was giving her, with teeth as white as fish bones and little dimples in her cheeks, only accentuated the gentleness of the face itself. It was the sort of face that made you want to do anything for the person behind it, and from the way Mason's big hand was wrapped around Lizzy's little one, it was clear he felt the same.

"Hey, lads!" Mason called out. "Say hello to Milah."

Three of the young men in the room turned and gave similar smiles, and he introduced them:

"This is Alfie, Calum, and Perry."

"How do you do," she said.

Somehow, when he had spoken of his sons, she had pictured them to be about Bae's age, but even the youngest was well into his teens, and Alfie had a full, well-trimmed beard, which softened his knobbly face. Chip of the old block, that one, and almost as wide over the shoulders. They returned to their own conversation quickly, their parents' affairs of little interest.

"They seem like good boys."

"Oh, they are," Lizzy said. "A solace to my soul, the lot of them. And I need it, too, with him off so much." She nudged Mason with her elbow, without malice, and he sighed, putting his arm around her waist.

"You must really miss him."

"Don't I just! At least I've got him for three weeks, now."

Milah's thoughts, about to head down a maudlin path, reeled back at that. "Three weeks?"

"Mhm. Unless it's the full month, but it isn't, is it?"

"Not this time, I'm afraid," Mason said. His glance towards Milah was sheepish and quickly slid off, showing that he knew damn well what she was thinking.

One week was what she'd got in Atlantis, and would have in Nysa if not for her injury. One week was what she'd expected here, but apparently there was no place like home. What the bloody hell was she supposed to do in this place for three whole weeks? Trod around the countryside? At least she might get that red dress sewn, if there was a decent seamstress in town.

Or she could go into fairy land. Killian hadn't seemed keen on the idea, and she wouldn't go alone, not after last time, but maybe she could convince one of the others. If this was Mason's home, he probably knew his way around enough to navigate the dangers.

She was just about to ask when she saw Killian coming down the stairs. As their eyes met, he gave her a pleading glance.

"Well, I'll let you have this time together, then," she said, standing up. "Nice to meet you, Lizzy."

As she approached, Killian stopped his descent, and they met by the foot of the stairs.

"Three weeks?" was the first thing she asked.

He grimaced. "Can we not have that row right now? I've just had a flaming one with half a dozen merchants."

Some of those merchants were passing them by on the stairs, and judging by their lemon-sour expressions, Killian wasn't exaggerating.

"Very well," she said, taking his hand and leading him back upstairs.

To her own surprise, the irritation that she felt with him only made her _more_ ready to ride him, and the sooner the better. She pushed him down on the bed, without even giving him any time to undress before she straddled him and started kissing his neck. Through their layer of clothes, she could feel him harden under her.

"What was the row with the merchants about?" she asked.

"Leatherwear. They're asking a shilling per hide for the leather alone, and that's..."

"You could get two pairs of finished boots for that in the Enchanted Forest," Milah said, starting to unlace the fine piece of leather that adorned his legs.

"Yes, but you couldn't find anyone with half the skill at putting it together. We'd have to buy the leather in the Enchanted Forest and then return here for the crafting of it, which is far too much work. Although I suppose it's a threat worth... ohhhhh..."

His hips bucked against her touch, and instinctively, his hands gripped at the bedposts.

"Don't just threaten to do it," she said. "If they won't budge, carry it through. Yes, it will mean extra work, but you might find them more ready to aquiesce to your requests afterwards."

"Darling," Killian panted, "we can talk or you can keep doing what you're doing. I'm not really capable of both."

When he put it like that, the choice was simple enough, and so she fell silent in order to bring her full attention to their first chance at having him inside her again since she'd taken ill. He looked so blissful, stretched out like this, worries and concerns ebbing away from his face as she got to work on him, until the remaining expression was of such innocent beauty that he seemed to her the image of a young god – a god entirely at her mercy, as she pinned him down with her weight, flexing her muscles to bring his shaft in further.

Not until they were both spent and she lay beside him, stroking patterns on his chest, did she speak again:

"So what am I supposed to do here for three weeks? Apart from this?"

"Spend time with the crew," he suggested. "Meet new people, enjoy nature... relax."

"I've _relaxed_ for far too long already."

"Not my fault, love."

True as that was, it didn't help any. Yes, maybe if she hadn't spent the past weeks flat on her back in the sickbay, she would have been more appreciative of a slower pace, but she couldn't instruct her body to react as if it were in different circumstances. Ungrateful as it was, this place made her restless, and there was really only one way to find any sort of adventure.

"Milah," he said, deadly serious as he brushed the hair away from her face. "I know you're curious of fairy land, but I'd rather you didn't go. Not yet, anyway. Not until you're..."

"Stronger?" she suggested, just as he finished with: "Happier."

"Well, yes," he admitted. "Stronger too."

"You don't think I'm happy?" she asked.

"I think you're trying to be, and you want to be." His hand caressed her shoulder. "I think you're well out of that place – but no, I don't think you're happy. Some day, I hope you will be, and then I'll take you. Not sooner."

She couldn't meet his gaze. "All right."

* * *

For the next couple of weeks, Milah did her very best to relax and find pleasure in the little things. She handed her length of silk over to a seamstress whose body of work on display was so impressive that there was no doubt the end result would be a thing of beauty. She played games with the crew, and learned some knew ones. She listened to stories from the locals, and had interesting conversations with Mason's family. Calum, in particular, turned out to have a way with tall tales. She walked up and down hills, trying to imagine little Killian doing the same.

Altogether, no one could possibly claim she didn't try – but it wasn't enough, and there was still almost a week left of their stay when she took Mason aside and asked, "Will you take me into fairy land?"

His brow drew together in a forbidding manner that would have meant flat-out no from anyone else, but she knew better than to gauge Mason's mood from how intimidating he looked.

"Why me?" he asked.

"Honestly? Because I think you're most likely to get me out. You've lived here, you know your way around."

At those reasons, he only regarded her in silence, and she bit her lip.

"And I don't think you'd go telling on me," she admitted.

"The captain disapproves."

"Very much so."

He sighed and scratched under the edge of his kerchief. "All right. Just so's you get back alive. And you do everything I say, you hear?"

"I promise," she said, surprised that it had been so easy to convince him – but then, she would have gone, one way or another, and he must have known that.

Rather than taking her to the spot Killian had pointed out, Mason first made her wait outside the _Roger_ while he fetched some kind of supplies, and then walked off with her so far across the hills that she started to wonder if he was sending her on some kind of wild goose chase in the hope of wearing her out. It seemed unlike him, though – taciturn as he was, he was usually more straightforward than that.

Just as the ache in her calves reached such a level that she was contemplating calling him out, Mason stopped.

"Here," he stated and handed over two heavy lumps of something, wrapped in cloth. "Hold these."

She obliged, and he proceeded to face the hill and speak throaty words in the local language she'd heard before in the inn, but such power behind them she looked up, expecting at the very least a thunderbolt.

There was nothing.

"Didn't it work?" she whispered.

Mason unwrapped the rope he'd held tucked into his belt and tied a sturdy knot around her waist.

"Come back if I tug on it," he said. "And don't take anything they give you."

"They who?" she asked.

Without another word, he took the wrapped lumps from her hands, and instantly melted into a distant blur along with the rest of the hill. Lazy waves splashed against her boots, and she saw that she was standing at the edge of the ocean – or _an_ ocean, for surely the one she'd left two miles behind had not been so blue, nor the sand so soft under her feet.

Before her was a tropical beach with palm trees and heavily scented wildflowers, leading to a landscape of rolling hills like the one she'd left. Unlike those hills, though, these were covered with tall, colourful buildings, a city more impressive than even Basileia. A faint melody played at the edge of her hearing. There seemed to be festivities of some sort going on, and she walked onward, all weariness forgotten.

The road was straight enough, yet she didn't see the woman until they were nearly face to face. The rich brown hair and tall build was similar to her own, and when she came closer she saw more similarities, in the shape of the face and the colour of the eyes. Her throat constricted and her heart beat faster with happiness, as the features brought back memories that all the years hadn't been able to erase.

"Mama?" she asked in a quivering voice.

"Welcome, my own heart's root," her mother said, taking both of Milah's hands in hers.

Yes, she remembered this, the term of endearment, even the sensation of mother's skin against hers, despite the years that had gone by and the fact that her own hands were so much rougher now.

"You're dead," she said.

"Shhh." Mama shook her head. "Not here. Never here."

"I've missed you so much." Milah's vision blurred with tears, and she blinked them away, not wanting anything to get in the way of Mama's face. "Especially after... after everyone..."

Mama hugged her tightly, hand stroking her forehead in long, soothing touches. "Come. The coach is waiting."

"What coach?"

But even as she asked, she could see a coach pulling to a halt a few strides before them, an ornamented vehicle in gold and red, with four horses and a coachman dressed in white. Ushered ahead by Mama's touch, Milah walked up to it in wonder, staring as the door opened and two much smaller hands reached for her. Those hands, she didn't need to touch to recognise anywhere.

"Bae," she breathed and took the steps in one stride, scooping up her son in an embrace even before she'd finished taking her seat. "Oh, Bae, darling, I'm so, so sorry!"

"It's all right, now," Bae said, wrapping his little arms around her. "Everything will be fine. We'll have a wonderful adventure, all of us together."

"All of us?" Her eyes had been fixed on her son's darling face, but now she raised it and looked straight at Killian's sly grin.

"Ready for a new city to explore, love?" he asked.

"What are you doing here? How did you know?"

"Oh, you can't keep secrets from me," he said, eyebrows cocked. "I knew you wouldn't be able to stay away, and so I had to come, naturally. This is something we should share together."

"I'm glad you're here," she said, hugging Bae tight and giving Killian a smile that held all of her relief and gratefulness.

"I'll drink to that," he said, pulling his flask from his inner pocket. After taking a swig, he handed it over. "Quick, before your mother sees."

"You never change, do you?" she asked, reaching out her hand.

There was a sudden pain in her stomach, and she looked down, puzzled. Something tugged at her, once, then again, and she saw to her surprise that she had an ugly piece of rope tied around her waist. Every new tug hurt her more, the rope cutting into the skin under her blouse, and she stood up in irritation, ready to untie it. The movement made her lose balance, though, and she grabbed at the doorframe to steady herself, only to get something else in her hand, something heavy and cold and _ugly_. It weighed her down, straight through the floor of the coach that seemed to fall apart, as light and fluffy as whipped cream. Another equally horrid weight was pressed into her other hand, and –

And she was standing in a dark cave, lit up only by the flying, flittering somethings that buzzed in her face. She tried to wave them off, and found herself staring at Mason's grim mug.

The hill rumbled.

"We have to go," Mason said, shoving her forward. "They _really_ didn't like me bringing iron in here."

"What... Where are we?"

"Go!" he shouted

She ran in the direction he indicated, ducking from stones that rolled down the cave walls, until she reached daylight again and tumbled out onto the muddy grass, Mason in tow. The rope still drooped between her legs like a long and bedraggled tail.

Mason leaned his elbows on his knees, and she saw with a pang of guilt that his face was bleeding. "You just had to... go in deep, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry," she said, eyes welling up as she watched the hill close behind them, the precious illusions lost inside. "It felt so real."

"It is real. Sort of. Flesh and blood, anyway, for a little while."

Now that she was out, it seemed preposterous that she ever could have taken in by the lie, no matter how tangible. She _knew_ that her mother was long dead, and that Bae was miles and miles away. Angry with herself, she wiped the tears away.

"I seem to make a frightful mess of things, lately."

"I should have warned you." He started untying the rope. "Except there's no warning for some things. Next time you try, it'll be easier. At least if there's nothing new."

"There won't be any next time," she said with emphasis, and could no longer stop the tears from flowing. Her arms ached for Bae, and she wrapped them around herself so that at least the emptiness wouldn't be so palpable.

Mason led her back to the inn in silence, his large hand around her shoulder the only comfort. Once there, he whistled for Jukes, who went off in search for Killian.

When Killian arrived, she tried to pull herself together and stop crying, but without much success.

"Well," Killian said with a sigh, kneeling by her chair. "That's done."

"I know I told you I wouldn't," she said.

"But you saw the promise of adventure and you had to go find it," he said, caressing her moist face. The new skin was stinging now, along with her tired eyes, but his touch made up for some of it. "I think I always knew you would, whatever I had to say, but I didn't want to admit it to myself, because then I would have to go with you. And I _really_ didn't want to go."

"What did you see?" she asked. "When you went?"

It took him a little while to answer. "Last time... I saw Liam. I haven't dared to try since. They're not _evil_ , the fairies, as such. They're just protective of their own, I guess. Stay out, or stay in, any means necessary. I've heard of people losing years, even hundred of years, and upset as anything about it when they got out, but in there, they were happy. Maybe you would have been too – but thank heavens we didn't have to find out."

He kissed her on the cheek, then stood back up, and she moved over to make room for him on the chair.

"You were there," she said, because that was important, maybe the most important thing she'd ever told him.

His eyes widened, making him look young and lost. "What?"

"You were there," she said. "You were a very important part of it. Killian, I... I may not be happy, quite, but I don't want you ever to think that my happiness doesn't include you."

His mouth closed fervently upon hers.

"We'll make our happiness," he whispered between the kisses. "Without those damned fairies."

"Yes," she agreed, closing her stinging eyes. "We will."


	11. Chapter 11

Milah knew that her lack of enthusiasm for Killian's old home was hurting him, but there wasn't much she could do about it. There was one thing, though, that impressed her all the way into grins and teary eyes and butterflies in her stomach. When she got her dress back from the seamstress, two days before the planned departure, it was beyond anything she could have imagined. The stitches and folds were expertly made, and the way the fabric was cut brought out the shine in the colour – not to mention giving the impression that she had the figure and skin of a young woman.

"Did you put magic in this?" she asked, unable to tear her eyes away from the mirror.

"Didn't have to," the seamstress said. "Easy enough to make a pretty dress with such good material and model."

"It's much more than pretty," Milah said. She noticed the way the hem was embroidered, and decided to add a considerable boon to their agreed price.

She returned to the ship humming with joy, and her grin got even wider when she saw Killian's reaction.

"Bloody hell, woman, you look a wonder!" he said, picking her up and swinging her around.

"Careful," she admonished him, laughing.

"Mustn't rip a brand new dress, eh?" he said, letting her down without letting go. "Especially not one fit for a queen."

"That's exaggerating things a little."

"A pirate queen, then," he said. "Which is what you are." He pushed her to arm's length and surveyed her like a newly-bought sword. "Tell you what. I'm meeting with some more merchants tonight. Why don't you come along, in that dress, and help me out?"

The suggestion was so out of the blue. She struggled to see his angle, or how her dress had anything to do with it. "Help you out how?"

"Make demands. Push them around a bit. Oh, like that thing with your eyes just now! Exactly like that."

The notion left her speechless, though she supposed it was better than being asked to show off her curves. In the end, she managed to say, "You're more than capable of handling some merchants on your own."

"Yes, but last time I handled them with the advice _you_ gave me, and it went really well, so I think you should do it yourself. In that dress. I butter them up, you knock them down." He clapped his hands together. "Battle is won. What do you say?"

"I'm not your bloodhound in a red dress," she said, but the statement itself made her laugh, and she wouldn't be able to resist putting that bizarre plan into motion. She could see the wolf grin spread across his face as he realized it too.

"Brilliant!" he said. "We'll wear them down in no time!"

She didn't quite have his confidence in that, but it was with anticipation mixed in her nerves that she came along for the meeting that night.

They met up in Killian's quarters, the merchants already gathered by the time she came in. Some of them wore the long tunics that were local custom on this island; others were clothed more like she would have expected from rich men back home, fur cloaks, long wigs and all.

She forced her shivering spine straight and tried to give her expression the effortless arrogance of a fine lady, someone like Gerald's mother, who had always been able to send her knees knocking.

For a moment, the men looked suitably awed, and she greeted them with her finest cut-glass voice – but then she saw one of them flicker his gaze down towards her feet.

The boots. Her one fine dress might be enough to fool them, but her boots were working boots, more use on a pirate ship than in a negotiation room.

"How no see if you can solve this to me pleasure," she said, mustering some of that arrogance back up, only to realize that she'd reverted back to her childhood accent. Sweat was forming under her arms, and she saw disdain form behind their polite facades.

Killian stepped in with an easy smile. "Like milady says, we're unsatisfied with the current proposal and its rather excessive prices."

"You get what you pay for," the sharp-eyed man said. "If you're content with second-rate material..."

Milah fought down a desire to hide her feet under the table.

The man gave her a condescending smirk, and her fingers itched for a sword to drive through his chest.

The ire managed to overtake the shame. Damn it, she wasn't a peasant any longer, she was a _pirate_ , and she needed to ask no scraps from lily-livered landlubbers.

"We are not content," she said. "Your figures have been sweetened to the point of rot. Perhaps you're fool enough not to notice, or fool enough to think we wouldn't. Now, do you want to start with actual numbers from someone who can count, or would you rather face our discontent?"

That boot of her, rough as it may be, still held a dagger, and the fleeting thought of slitting him open gave her satisfaction no real battle ever had. She pulled her lips back in what couldn't be called a smile.

The merchant looked as though he'd swallowed a bee, and eventually found his tongue around the offending imaginary insect to say, "I assure you, milady..."

"Oh, the assurances can wait," Killian said, his smile wide and his eyes sparkly. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"

Even with Killian's wolfish mirth on full display, Milah remained too angry to remember much of what was said afterwards, though she did remember the numbers scribbled down on the reverse side of a map, and the satisfaction she felt when those numbers turned into something acceptable.

As for Killian, the way he kissed her after negotiations were over and the merchants had slunk down the stairs imprinted upon her lips, courtesy of his stubble.

Her lower lips were granted a more gentle treatment that night, and she responded by riding him harder than she ever had before. During the act, he was reduced to incoherent noises, but afterwards, he propped himself up and mumbled in her ear, "You... are my clever pirate queen... and we shall rule the waters together."

"You talk such tripe," she said fondly, kissing his sweaty neck.

* * *

After they left for other shores, Killian kept using Milah in trade negotiations, and as the role grew on her, she came to enjoy it more and more. With Killian's easy smile (and ready sword) by her side, she could speak her mind freely and use her wits. Sometimes she got the feeling that she was, in a different sense, as much of his bulldog as Mason was.

Her swordsmanship also improved, to the extent that going into the quarters of a Navy ship ready to kill no longer sent her heart up to her mouth, though she still kept a focused concentration. She could disarm a man if there was no need to kill him, and make the lethal blow effective when there was no other choice, and that alleviated some of her fears. Having the youngsters by her side helped too, since protecting them took priority over any question of morality.

It was in exploration that she, wise from recent experience, became more cautious. As autumn drew closer to winter, the _Jolly Roger_ moved further south, to areas unknown to her even from books. Attacks became scarcer, though the Avalonian and Cockaignese fleets both had wide-reaching ambitions, enough that the pirate crew still could get by on loot.

On one occasion, after robbing a Cockaignese ship, they found themselves chased by three others, and they were forced to outsail them. Only after four days could they go ashore, on a small island that, by all impressions, was uninhabited.

Teynte looked from the dense jungle ahead, to the bare shores on each side, and asked Milah:

"What do you want to do first? Go into the jungle, or go around and try to figure out how large this place is?"

"Don't you think we should bring someone else?" Milah asked, watching the rest of the crew, who for the time being were satisfied to rest on the shore, a few of them gathering firewood now that they were too far from their pursuers for the smoke to be detected.

Teynte shrugged. "If you want. Hey, Jukes!" she called. "Want to go explore?"

"I mean an adult," Milah said, as the cabin boy came running up to them.

"We are adults," Teynte said, affronted. She nudged Milah with her shoulder. "What's the matter? You used to be more fun than this."

"I just don't want to put us in danger," Milah said.

"If it's safety you want, you're in the wrong profession," Teynte said, rolling her eyes. "None of us are going to live to a ripe old age, we might as well have fun while we're at it. You can't hang off Mason's coat tails forever."

"I didn't plan to," Milah protested. "But I don't see how unnecessary risks..."

"We could go round the shore," Jukes suggested. "That way, we'll see if something dangerous shows up, and we won't get lost."

"Sounds like a plan," Teynte said and started walking. "Come on!" she called back to the other two. "I'm going even if you're not! Bet it won't be more than an hour until I show up from the other side!"

Jukes shrugged and followed, which gave Milah little choice but to do the same. She felt a strange sense of relief, doing so. Throwing herself back into the unknown was easy enough when it was on someone else's head, when _her_ choices weren't the ones that could have catastrophic consequences.

And in the end, nothing happened. The walk around took almost two hours, the island being rather rockier and with more inlets than they had expected, but they made it back to the campsite with nothing worse to show for it than blisters and sand in their shoes.

"Told you," Teynte said, flopping down on the ground. "I'm doing the jungle tomorrow."

"I planned on leaving tomorrow," Killian said, coming up to them, "but I suppose we could wait long enough for a little exploration." His hand came to rest around Milah's waist. "Did you have fun, love?"

"Yes, actually," she said, leaning her head against his shoulder.

The trek around the island had been challenging and interesting enough that she'd forgotten her concerns. Looking out over the crew, though, she couldn't help but wonder how long they would all live. They'd been lucky so far – while there had been several injuries since she came on board, Foggerty's worst of all, the only death had been a new recruit who hadn't survived his first mission. But the luck couldn't hold forever. Perhaps it would be an exploratory mission; more likely it would be during a battle.

Of all the possibilities she pondered, she didn't expect the one that actually came to pass.

* * *

It was a couple of weeks before Midwinter – or what would have been Midwinter back home, though the weather outside made Milah doubt her own count of the days. This far south, there was little rain, and snow was obviously out of the question. Days and nights were of equal length and changed briskly from one to another, none of those drawn-out hours where the sun may or may not be setting behind heavy clouds.

One such sunny morning she woke, halfway out of Killian's bed. They'd have to try finding a bigger one; she slept with him more nights than not, these days, and on his more restless nights she risked falling off completely.

Gathering herself together, she managed to slip down onto the floor, no harm done and her lover still fast asleep. She was still unused to this latitude, but the height of the sun as well as her growling stomach made her suspect that they had overslept.

Since no one had come to wake them, she left Killian where he was and proceeded to the galley, to see if anyone else would be wanting breakfast.

To her surprise, Cookson and Bilal were sitting at the table, which was empty apart from a cup situated in front of Cookson. His face was pale and drawn, and as she walked up to them, he took another swig from it.

"Hey," Bilal said, heavily. Cookson didn't even seem to register her presence. "I hadn't called on the captain yet. I thought until we knew..."

The door to Cook's cabin opened, and Soeng exited. He was in a state of undress, but his grave expression was unlike anything Milah had seen on men leaving Cook's cabin before, and she caught a glimpse of someone else moving in there. She had a feeling it might be Mullins.

With a start, she realized that she knew what was going on.

"Is she...?" she asked.

Soeng's eyes briefly touched on hers before moving on to Cookson.

"I'm sorry," he said. "There doesn't seem to be... anything we can do."

Cookson's face crumpled, and he hunched over, as if he was physically trying to hold in the pain and keep it confined to his body.

"What happened?" Milah asked.

"Apoplexy," he said. "Least that's what Mullins says. I'm going up to tell the captain. Could you... get started with the breakfast? The crew will be down soon."

She nodded mutely. Cooking for so many wasn't her strong suit, but after helping Cook a few times at least she knew how. Anyway, someone had to do it and Bilal was occupied with his grieving colleague. Finding the biscuits and rum was easy enough, and she put it out on the table before lighting the stove and moving on to actual cooking.

More crewmembers trickled into the room while she was at it. Some of them already knew what had happened, judging by their sombre faces and reddened eyes, while others had to be told. Conversation was subdued, mostly consisting of condolences and the trite phrases that always seemed to follow upon death.

Teynte, when she arrived, had tears streaming down her face and threw her arms around Cookson in a brief but fierce hug. This surprised Milah – the two of them had never seemed close before, and Teynte wasn't the sentimental kind. Then she remembered that they came from the same Thulean brothel. Close didn't matter, then – no more than it had when Milah had attended her father's funeral against her sister's wishes. She hadn't spoken to her father for years, yet the pain remained strong for a little bit of home, irrevocably lost.

Seeing Teynte in such a state, Milah took a step towards her, ready to take her into her arms – but then she backed off. This grief wasn't hers to intrude on. Of course she was sad about Cook... her eyes drifted towards the back room. Despite Soeng's words and everyone's shook-up faces, some part of her still expected Cook to be back in a moment, grumpy about having overslept.

Mullins entered the galley and instantly got everyone's attention. He grasped Cookson's shoulder and said, "I'm sorry. She was already dead. Seems like she died in her sleep."

"I was with her last night," Scourie blurted out, and then blushed when everyone turned to look. "I mean... she seemed fine, then. A bit tired, maybe, but I thought that was all."

"It might not have taken as long as all that," Mullins said. "The first symptoms may have come on later. Even if she did notice something wrong, there's blasted little anyone could have done about it, with an apoplexy of this scale. Strong magic, maybe, nothing less."

A slight smell of burning reminded Milah to take the fried fish off the stove, about a minute too late. She scraped off the blackest bits before serving, and vowed to keep a better watch over the next bunch. Which she did, and they turned out a beautiful golden brown, that she unfortunately forgot to salt – something she only realized when at long last she sat down and had a bite herself.

Killian took some time to arrive, and he did so fully dressed, vest and all, and his shirt done up higher than she'd seen it. His boots had been shined, and the customary jewellery was left off. Though they were clothes he wore all the time, right then it was also unmistakeably funeral attire. And of all the stupid things in the world, this was what made Milah's eyes well up. This she knew from home, the formalities, the state of mourning, that made deaths tangible and real even when the body lay slain miles away and could not be recovered.

Perhaps it was vanity on his part, but it felt _right_. The captain, showing his respects.

After breakfast, arrangements were made for the burial. Milah owned nothing black; all her clothes were work clothes except the red dress. In the end, she opted for the blue woollen skirt, brushing it off a little to clean it up. She dressed in privacy behind the curtain of her bed, and noticed as she reemerged that Bilal had chosen similar clothes to her own, while Soeng had gone for the lightest of his shirts and trousers. It seemed there were no set rules, then.

About an hour later, the ship stopped, and everyone gathered on deck. Mullins, Soeng, Cookson and Teynte had all helped prepare the body, and it lay sewn into a canvas on a wooden plank, resembling a large butterfly cocoon more than it did the living Cook.

"Why can't we see her?" Milah mumbled quietly.

"This is customary, love," Killian mumbled back, before stepping up. He cleared his throat to quiet everyone and start the ceremony, and called out, "Unto death and the world beyond, we commend our sister, and commit her body to the sea. May it be shaped and brought to life anew as the sea chooses." In a softer voice, he continued, "Cookson, is there anything you want to say?"

Cookson took a few shaky steps and knelt by his mother's body, stroking the head side of the canvas. "Goodbye, mama. I'll miss you. Um..." He looked up, bewildered.

At that point, Teynte started to sing. Milah could make up no words, and it was only when Cookson joined in that she realized that they were singing in Thulean:

"Deyr fé,deyja frændr, deyr sjálfr it sama. En orðstírr deyr aldregi, hveim er sér góðan getr..."

The heavy, steady tones of the melody carried their own drum beat, and when the low beginning gave rise to higher tones, hairs rose on Milah's arms. The music seemed like the sea itself, unforgiving and alluring, and it gave her little comfort – though she could tell that the singers felt differently. Then again, they understood the words.

When the song came to an end, Killian nodded towards Mullins, and the crewmembers raised the plank to the gunwale, dumping Cook's body overboard. The splash echoed in the silence, and there was a pause, followed by a collective sigh when everyone turned to leave.

This time, when Teynte walked by, Milah reached out an arm and hugged her close. The girl sagged into her arms with such relief, she felt horrible not to have offered this hug before.

"It's strange," Teynte whispered, "all of a sudden I miss my mother."

"That's not strange," Milah said, stroking her friend's short-cropped hair. "That's not strange at all."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors note: Episode 5.14 aired just as these coming chapters were in the last process of beta, and I went "well, fuck". For reasons that will become obvious upon reading, I had to revise, or else the irony would be a little too thick.  
> Then Episode 5.15 aired and I went "well, fuck" again, because the chapters after that are all about Killian's family, and that's not even revisable, I'll have to either go full-on AU or scrap them entirely. (Haven't decided yet.)  
> Anyway. I hope you will still enjoy the chapter!

They were a pirate ship, and mourning could only be permitted so long. Soon, they were back to business, plucking off any Cockaignese or Avalonian ship that ventured this far south, and a few more that Killian claimed belonged to allies.

At first, Milah had some fears that she'd be asked to take over the cooking, as the only woman left on ship who had managed a household, but no one made such a suggestion. Perhaps her ill fit in such a role was self-evident after her latest attempt; either way, Cookson took over his mother's duties, with nearly the same level of skill.

More accurately, Cookson took over _some_ of his mother's duties. It didn't occur to Milah to wonder about the rest; she spent most of her nights with Killian and paid little mind to how others spent theirs.

They'd been nearly a month at sea when they next came ashore, this time to Nmkwami. In many ways, it gave the impression of being the rural cousin of Atlantis. The architecture was much the same, but the grand castles and temples were fewer and further between than in the city of Basileia, and you reached the countryside much quicker.

Attire, too, was similar to Atlantean, but the people were darker, with softer features. The similarity to Murphy and Bilal was evident – in fact, one man she saw in the marketplace looked so much like Bilal that she wondered if there was some sort of kinship. But she could hardly accost a stranger to ask, and anyway, she wouldn't know how. The Nmkwami language wasn't like any she'd ever heard before, and those she had met so far who could switch to a second language all spoke Cockaignese, not Avalonian. Following Starkey on his errands meant that she could rely on him to get by, but the constant need for translation left her in a bad mood.

"I thought you'd be better at Cockaignese by now," he scolded her softly after they had sent some crewmen back with the purchased rum barrels and were proceeding on to the ropery.

"I know maybe ten phrases," she said, "and none of them with this accent."

"People always have different accents. You'll need to be more diligent in your studies if you ever want to be independent as a pirate." When she groaned at that, he added, "You're clever, it shouldn't be so hard."

"I'm clever with _numbers_ ," she said. "Numbers are easy. There are only ten of them, their value is multiplied tenfold with each shift in positions. That goes for most countries, and even other systems are based on simple repetitive patterns of multiplication. Languages are thousands of words, and the meanings may not translate exactly, and a word in one language might mean something entirely different in another. That's a hell of a lot harder. And if nobody here speaks Avalonian, how come Murphy has an Avalonian name?"

"I didn't say _nobody_ ," Starkey pointed out. "It's not very common, up here, that's all. Further south, near the Wakandan border, you get a lot of Avalonian ships coming to trade – which is why we don't go ashore there: too easy to get caught. And he doesn't."

It took her a while to figure out the meaning of that last part. "He doesn't?"

"He took it when he joined the crew. His real name is..." Starkey hesitated. "You need to ask him to say it. It's six syllables long and apparently means 'hurry to the plunder'."

"It does not!"

"It does!" An unusually wide smile spread over Starkey's face. "We took it as a sign that fate had meant for him to be a pirate. Still, it was a bit of a mouthful, so he changed it to Murphy. It means 'sea-warrior'."

"Really?"

"Mm. Strictly speaking, it's not Avalonian either. It's based on a name from Tir na nÓg. "

She mulled that over as they entered the ropery and Starkey ordered the rope and tackle they needed in a mix of Nmkwami and Cockaignese. She caught a few words here and there, helped by the fact that she knew how much rope was needed, but it was still a far cry from full sentences.

Starkey noticed her expression, and his own softened. Having finished his order, he told her, "Thing is, languages may be complicated, but once you learn them, they can also be quite fascinating."

The obvious reverence in his voice made her long to learn more, to find that fascination he spoke about. She had a niggling suspicion, though, that she'd just be trading one kind of frustration for another.

* * *

When they returned, Milah spotted Ryan off on the side of the ship by the rail, talking to a young Nmkwami woman. She thought nothing of it, but when she came back up on deck, the girl was still there, now leaning against the gunwale with Teynte, chatting away in Cockaignese.

Though Milah had seen a number of Nmkwami women in brightly coloured dresses on her walks ashore, it was still an impressive sight, with the broad stripes of red, yellow and black, loose-fitting, yet not so shapeless as to hide the grace of the woman within. The view was heightened further by her mass of dark curls, set free to flow across her shoulders, rather than being tied back or wrapped up like that of most of her countrywomen.

Teynte's and the stranger's expressions and quickness of speech seemed to indicate that the conversation was casual, rather than business-oriented, but there was nothing to suggest anything more than that. Milah paused for a moment nevertheless, just to make sure, but then gave in to her curiosity and approached them.

"Who's your friend?" she asked.

The girl looked up and smiled. Seen from the front, she was older than Teynte, maybe twenty or so. Her face was long and thin, but the eyes and mouth were round, which gave an appearance of slight surprise.

"Oh, this is Malika," Teynte said. "She's the new ship's wench."

The greeting died away on Milah's lips. "She's what?"

"Ship's wench," Teynte repeated. "You know, to replace Cook."

"So she's going to cook?" Milah asked, clinging to that notion though she knew it to be untrue.

"I hope not," Malika said. "I am a terrible cook."

Milah stopped short at that, and blinked. "You speak Avalonian."

"Yes. Also Atlantean, Cockaignese, Wakandan, and of course Nmkwami." Malika raised her chin. "I could be an asset."

"Asset? As a... who _hired_ you?"

Malika glanced over at Teynte. "The grey-haired man, what was his name?"

"Ryan."

"Ryan can do that?" Milah asked. "Just hire a... wench?"

"He's first mate," Teynte said with a shrug. The beginnings of a scowl showed on her face. "If he thinks the ship is understaffed, he's entrusted to do something about it. Is there a problem?"

Milah faltered, and Malika gave a scoff of laughter, following it up with some muttered Cockaignese that made Teynte's scowl deepen.

"Does Killian know about this?" Milah finally asked.

"Don't know. Depends if Ryan has told him."

"I'll go talk to him them," Milah said, storming off.

She tried Killian's cabin first, but it was empty. Instead, she found him a few cabins over, and in fact he was talking to Ryan, which meant it made far more sense to address the first mate directly.

"You hired a prostitute? For the ship?"

"I did," Ryan said, crossing his arms in response to whatever he saw in her face.

"Why?"

"It should be obvious. The men are used to getting it on board. If they have to wait for shore leave, they might get frustrated. Frustrated men are hard to keep the reins on." His gaze drifted over her. "Could put you in danger. You and the little one. Sure, she's a girl-rider and you're the captain's lady, but how long will that serve as protection?"

"It will serve long enough," Killian snapped. "Unless they care to be whipped bloody and tossed to the mermaids."

Milah didn't respond. She hadn't given Ryan much thought before; he was just sort of _there_ , but his words and dark gaze now made her skin crawl. Did he count himself in among those men? Surely not, or he'd never dare suggest such a thing near Killian – but who, then? Was there anyone in particular she couldn't trust? Most of the men had gone to see Cook at one point or another, she'd never kept track...

Killian put an arm around her, which made her jump.

"I suppose there's no harm in keeping the men happy," he said. "I'll go talk to her."

Following Killian back onto deck, she felt even worse about the whole thing. Having a woman on board whose sole function was to sleep with the crew was bad enough. But to make it a sort of sacrifice to keep herself safe? How would she ever be able to look that poor girl in the eyes?

The poor girl in question seemed utterly unperturbed when the two of them came to see her; she merely finished her conversation with Teynte and straightened up into an almost regal bearing, giving Killian a gracious smile.

"Captain Jones?" she asked. "I am Malika."

"So I hear," he said. "Welcome on board. I understand you've been hired as a ship's wench."

"Yes."

"Did Ryan set any terms for that?"

Malika briskly counted them off on her fingers. "No more than three men a night. Moon days off. I get paid the same as everyone else. I have the right to turn men away if they are unclean or do not respect me."

"If they don't respect you, make sure you come to me," Killian said. "I'll deal with that. What if you have to cancel for some other reason? Say, if you get ill or something?"

Her mouth thinned as she thought. "Then I shall take that man again as soon as I can."

"As an extra, or pushing everyone else back?"

"Pushing."

"And if one of them cancels on you?"

"Then he must wait."

Their tone was cordial but businesslike, and neither one of them paid Milah any mind, though Teynte still glowered at her.

"Well, that seems all right, then," Killian said and shook Malika's hand. "Teynte, you'll show our new crewmember around, won't you?"

The deal settled, he nudged Milah along, and she took his cue, following him back down.

"That's it?" she asked once they were out of earshot. "You're going to allow it?"

"She's old enough and clever enough to know her own mind," he said. "That's all I can ask for."

"But aren't you ultimately responsible for new crewmembers? You could say no."

"Yes, and I'm not going to." There was a slight note of warning in his voice now, though his face was still relaxed. "You know what the crew gets up to on shore leave. You knew what Cook did in her back room. Why is it any different with Malika?"

"Cook had another duty on ship," Milah protested. "She didn't have to take any men on unless she wanted to. I don't think a woman should be hired to be some convenient hole for them to stick their pricks into because they can't be bothered to wait until shore leave."

"They'll still be seeing prostitutes either way," he said. "And Malika will still be taking customers, whether here or at home."

"That doesn't mean we have to condone it!"

"Well, I'm not going out there and telling the crew they can't have the wench who has already been hired. Especially not since I've got my own bed kept warm at night."

"And what makes you think your bed will kept warm tonight?"

His jaw tightened. "Milah, the arrangement has been made. It seems a fair one."

"What's fair about her having to take on two dozen men a month?"

"Bloody hell, no one's dragged her on board!"

"You're not listening to me!"

"I am," he said, his voice lower again. "I'm saying no. As the captain of this ship, that's still my right."

"Are you pulling rank on me?" she asked, itching to give his face a slap.

"Aye, if that's what I have to do. Don't worry." His mouth twitched slightly. "If you decide not to warm my bed, I'll still remain in it."

There was a finality to his words that she didn't know how to counter, and so she bit down on all the insults that tried to rise in her throat. None of them were a proper argument, anyway. Still troubled by the issue, she retreated to her cabin.

When she reached it, she found Teynte, rummaging through the possessions in one of the boxes. It took a moment for Milah to see that it was Soeng's box, and at first she attributed Teynte's twitchy movements with this seemingly illicit activity. When the girl fished out a pair of beginner's bracelets, however, her actions became clear, and the expression she made seeing Milah in the doorway showed that her twitchiness was down to anger, rather than guilt. If she had been a cat, she would have been flicking her tail.

Milah stopped at the doorway, watching in silence for a while, before asking, "Will you be angry all day?"

"You didn't even say hello!" Teynte burst out, straightening up with the bracelets in her hand. "Or welcome on board, or anything. You just started _interrogating_ her, and then you called in the captain, asking him to throw her off the ship."

"I didn't ask..." Milah started, and then admitted, "I'm not comfortable having her on board."

"You're comfortable enough having the crew on board, and they're the ones she'll be taking to bed. She's not hurting anyone! And _she_ never promised anyone fidelity, either."

That barb hit home, and Milah shot back: "What do you know of fidelity? You with a lover in every port – a little girl playing a grownup game."

"I'm sixteen!" Teynte looked about ready to throw a punch, bracelets and all. "If I'd stayed in the brothel I'd be old news by now – and I guess then you wouldn't be comfortable having me on board, either!"

Milah had been having about four different angry diatribes ready, but they all died as Teynte spoke.

"Gods, I'm sor –" she said.

"Don't you dare," Teynte interrupted. "Don't you bloody dare apologise to me before you apologise to her."

There wasn't much to say to that. Milah turned to leave, but halted and asked, "I could give her the bracelets, if you want."

Teynte's hands clenched upon the bracelets, but then she hurled them Milah's way, none too gently.

Milah caught them and left the cabin, her feet dragging only slightly. When she reached the cargo area, she paused, eyes sweeping the empty spots as she contemplated what else they could buy here, and what could perhaps be stolen at the next raid. There had been a dearth in work opportunity lately; the ships down here were mostly local and off-limits; they'd need to find a suitable vessel soon. Too bad Nmkwami wasn't an official ally to the Cockaignese, or they'd be fair game – but then, the _Jolly Roger_ might not have had such a pleasant welcome.

She should be moving on towards the galley, that was the spot most likely to find Malika, but still she didn't stir. Her thoughts drifted towards Teynte, what she would have looked like at Jukes' age when she first joined the crew. Not so different perhaps, smaller and softer in the way of children, a little girl who'd rather throw herself into the unknown than take a man to bed.

And what of the girls who had chosen differently? Not much of a choice at all, really. Just a victim of circumstance... and that thought made it easier for Milah to take those final steps into the galley and the cabin behind it.

Inside the cabin, Malika was sorting clothes. She had pulled out all of Cook's things and laid them on the bed. A large piece of blue woven cloth was spread out across the floor, and her own possessions lay in a bundle there, piece by piece folded and put inside the box by the foot of the bed.

Milah sternly reminded herself of the little girl, and cleared her throat. "I've come to... um... Teynte wanted you to have these."

She handed over the bracelets, and Malika accepted them with a gracious nod.

"Thank you."

"I wanted to apologise," Milah said. "About before. I should have welcomed you better."

Malika watched her, silently.

"I was rude," Milah continued, "and you didn't deserve that. After all, none of this is your fault."

"My fault?" Malika asked.

"I mean, I'm aware that you didn't ask to be put into this position."

"I did ask," Malika said, fastening the bracelets around her wrists. "Pirates make for good customers. Pay well, and most of them are grateful, too. I could make myself a pretty penny here."

"What I meant was..."

"I know what you meant. I don't need your pity."

"Damn it, woman," Milah snapped, her temper lost. "I'm trying to apologise!"

"Don't need that either. It's not the first time I've had to deal with jealous women."

"I'm not jealous!"

Milah tried to ignore the sarcastic way Malika's gaze drifted over her body. That gaze seemed to take in every flaw: the odd grey hair, the laugh lines, the slight sag to the chest area. But she was _not_ jealous, and she wasn't past her prime either!

"What, then?" Malika asked. "Shocked, at how immoral this is? Can't have a whore with the thieves?"

"I just want to apologise," Milah said between her teeth. "Will you please let me?"

"Why? Because Edwige wants it?"

Less than an hour on board and it was 'Edwige' already, Milah noted, anger flaring up again – but the mention of Teynte also served as a reminder to keep herself in control.

"Partly," she admitted. "But listen, we have to live with each other here, whether we want to or not, and it's going to be a hell of a lot easier if we're not enemies."

Malika watched her dispassionately. "So what do you suggest?"

"If you need something," Milah said, forcing herself to stay calm and civil, "I could help. I suppose."

"Oh, I don't know..." Malika's eyes roamed the small cabin. Then her eyes fell on the pile of Cook's clothes on the bed, and her pensive gaze was replaced with a slight smile. "Will you toss these out for me? I can't wear them and I doubt anyone would buy them."

"Those are _Cook's_ clothes!"

"And now they're mine," Malika said slowly, "and I don't want them. Whatever would I do with them? Although..."

She paused, artificially, and Milah permitted herself to play along.

"Yes?"

"They say it is cold on the sea. Perhaps one of those patch blankets they make up north."

"A quilt?"

"Yes, that's the word. I wouldn't know how to make one. Would you?"

Milah's immediate impulse was to ask Malika to shove the clothes down her throat, or even to assist her at that task. She raised her chin, and met those dark eyes – seeing the rage behind that sarcastic smile, the desire to hurt, born from humiliation.

Well. If it had been one of her own townspeople, coming to apologise, would she have asked any less? And she couldn't let Cook's clothes be thrown out. Perhaps by giving in to the manipulation, she could somewhat honour the dead woman, and keep the peace all at once.

"All right," she said with a sharp laugh. "I'll sew you the damned quilt and then we're even. Don't bloody well try anything like this again."

* * *

The fact that Milah was spending her breaks with an uncharacteristic sewing task didn't escape the crewmembers' eyes for long. Since she refused to explain this course of action, she was met with a bunch of jokes about trying to make coats that would turn seabirds human. She figured it was better than the truth, but took to showing her teeth to the jokers and saying, "Maybe I'm looking for a way to turn pirates into seabirds."

She didn't speak much with Malika, but a form of truce had been reached and they kept a polite distance that outwardly was similar enough to the indifference Milah felt for several other of the crewmembers.

Dealing with Teynte was harder. She'd mellowed a bit after she learned that Milah had apologised, but their relationship still had a tinge of frost, which didn't thaw until the next ship raid. Back to back, fighting off Navy officers to clear the path below deck, it was hard to keep any animosity alive. When they finished the job, Teynte gave Milah a shy grin, and Milah used her own headscarf to wipe a stain of blood off her protégé's face. She could feel the muscles relax under her touch.

"All right?" she asked.

"All right," Teynte confirmed.

Things had changed, though, there was no question about it. It was most noticeable with Jukes, who kept being left to his own devices. Teynte didn't abandon him entirely, but often he hung about alone with a forlorn expression, and at times Milah had to set her handiwork aside to draw him something.

She wondered if there was a romance – professional or otherwise – blooming between Teynte and Malika, but that didn't seem to be the case. There were none of the charged glances she had seen Teynte exchange with other women, and whenever Milah spent the night in her own bunk, the top one was always occupied.

Perhaps it was just the joy of having a woman friend closer to her own age. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Teynte _was_ a woman, both in age and sex, but that didn't mean she herself forgot. Whatever the reason, Milah found that she simply had to accept it.

As for the rest of the crew, Milah was determined to maintain a blind eye. She could trust Killian to remain faithful, and that was really all that mattered.

It did bother her, thought, when he, in the manner of the crew, referred to Malika as "Moll".

"That's not her name," Milah snapped.

Killian stopped in the midst of lacing his trousers and raised an eyebrow at her. "It's only a nickname."

"It's a terrible one," she said. "You might as well call her a whore to her face."

"As opposed to not speaking to her at all?" It was spoken lightly, but then he softened. "Sorry, love. But you can't ignore someone and look out for their best interests at the same time."

Her lips tightened. "Can we... not talk about this?"

Having finished the last of the laces, he walked over and kissed her. "By all means."

Still, the quilt and what it represented hung over her, square by square, piece by piece of Cook's clothes cut away and sewn in. Though the colours were largely muted and faded, she cut the pieces to place them in contrasting patterns that would make the finished product appealing. The owner of the clothes had been a good, caring woman, and regardless of what Milah thought of Malika, she wanted to put some of that in.

By the end of what would have been winter back home, the quilt was finally finished. Before dinnertime she carried it to Malika, who was fortunately alone in her cabin.

"Here you go," Milah said, handing it over. "I hope you enjoy it."

"I'm sure I will." Malika gave a tight smile. "Pleasure doing business with you."

As frosty as her tone was, she did spread the quilt out on the bed with quite some care, and the last thing Milah saw as she left was Malika gently running her hand over the pattern.

On her way back, Milah did a detour up on deck, taking in the spring air of Agrabah, almost chilly at this time of year, and she revelled in the sense of freedom it gave her.

* * *

Six weeks later they were on their way back to familiar lands, having sailed further than Milah could have dreamed of even with the guidance of books. Two days after their latest shore leave, Milah woke up in the morning violently sick. She rushed out of bed and up onto deck, almost choking before she could lean out and empty her stomach into the sea. A few breaths, then she had to heave again, until there was nothing left.

This wasn't seasickness, not anything like it. A dark, gnawing suspicion rose in her and made her heart beat quicker, or maybe that was just the nausea. The future, never something she liked to dwell on, now filled her with dread.

She'd have to leave the _Roger_. If what she suspected was true, she'd have to settle down somewhere, live the kind of life she'd already escaped once. Alone, this time, which might be a blessing, except – dear gods, what had Rumpelstiltskin told that healer? Had the contract been signed for him alone, or for her as well? She'd never thought to ask; at the time it had seemed like one and the same.

Someone rushed past her, and she heard sounds of more vomiting. Straightening up, slowly, she saw Cooper in the same position that she'd just been in.

But then it wasn't...

"What's going on?" she asked slowly when he was finished.

"That bloody pork last night," he said gloomily, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt. "I knew it was undercooked."

Milah sank to the deck, legs too shaky to stand, grateful beyond words that it was just bad pork.

Once she felt better, she went down to see Mullins, who was mixing whatever remedy he could think of and handing it out to a long row of people. She drank her medicine and proceeded to her own cabin, rather than Killian's. Though her fears were alleviated, she checked on her potion, just to make sure.

There was still some left – but, she noticed, not a whole lot. Unless something was done, she'd have this scare again soon enough, and with better reason.

Quietly, she stood up and poked at Teynte in the bunk above.

"Hey," she whispered, and when she got a groaned reply, "Hey, do you know where to get more of that potion Cook used to make?"

"Huh? What potion?"

"For the bleedings!"

There was a pause, and then, "No. She made it herself. Maybe someone else in Thule knows."

"I haven't got enough to last us to Thule," Milah said, wondering if the ice in Thule had even melted enough for them to go there. And that was provided she could get Killian to change course. "Do you?"

"I've got enough for _me_. Not for you too."

Milah resisted the desire to ask Teynte to give her the potion anyway. It would be utterly unfair to expect her friend to suffer through the bleedings, just because she wasn't in any position to get pregnant.

"Isn't there anywhere closer I could buy some?" she asked.

"You could ask Malika,"

Milah cursed under her breath.

"Or keep your legs crossed until Thule," Teynte said.

"Very well," Milah sighed eventually. "Are you coming?"

"It's not even morning yet," Teynte complained, but she swung her legs over the edge, yawning widely.

Together they went to Malika's room behind the galley, which was closed, moans and creaks coming from inside. Milah rather uncomfortably wondered if they should return later, but of course later there'd be breakfast, at least for those on board who could currently stomach food.

As soon as the noises ceased, Teynte gave a quick, distinctive series of knocks on the door.

For a while, they was no reply. Then Scourie slunk out, red-faced, and behind him Malika drew up her dress in a makeshift wrap around her body. The quilt, Milah noticed, was lying folded-up on the box by the foot of the bed, untouched by the goings-on.

"We were wondering if you could help us with something," Teynte said.

At this time of the morning, Malika's hair was a mess and lines from the pillow evident on her face. Even so, her gaze held the same regal superiority as always as she assessed them both.

"Come on in," she said, and told Milah, "You're looking paler than usual. Anything the matter?"

Milah, taking the challenge, strode inside with her chin raised.

Teynte shut the door behind them. "Do you know how to make a potion to stop monthly bleedings?"

"Permanently?"

"No, just..."

"Do you _have_ a permanent way?" Milah interrupted. Her past self would have slapped her for the notion, but then, things had changed greatly.

"It's the only way I know," Malika said. She took out a comb and a bottle of fragrant oil from her box of belongings, and proceeded to methodically untangle her hair as she spoke. "I can't be bothered with daily potions made by amateurs. Maybe you forget to take it, and get pregnant, or maybe the ingredients weren't quite right. The method I've used, that I taught my friends, there's none of that. It's expensive, painful, a little bit dangerous." Her eyes glittered. "But unlike everything else, if you get it to work, it _really_ works. No bleedings, no babies. Ever."

"Sounds good," Milah said, a strange sort of elation rising inside her. "How do we arrange it?"

"What!?" Teynte asked.

"Not you, obviously. You had enough for Thule, didn't you?"

"Yes, but..."

"Oh, my," Malika said in fake shock. "You want to make yourself barren? Whatever would the Captain say?"

"You leave that to me," Milah said firmly, to cover up the way her chest tightened. Obviously, she should talk to Killian – but this was one argument she couldn't afford to lose.

The gods had a cruel sense of humour, placing her on this side of the fence.

"Meaning you're not going to tell him," Malika declared with evident satisfaction. "Well, that suits me fine. Where's our next stop?"

"Ujanka," Teynte said, not taking her eyes off Milah. "Are you _sure_?"

Malika snorted. "Ujanka won't do. Wakanda would have what we need, but they have no big cities near the waterfront. I suppose if we're lucky we could pick up the necessary items in N'Zadaha. Any chance of stopping there?"

"I'll try to arrange it," Milah said. "Is there anything to see in N'Zadaha?"

"It's Wakandan. Of course there is."

"Then there shouldn't be a problem. Don't look at me like that," she added to Teynte. "Yes, I'm sure. Truth be told, I've rarely been so sure about anything."

Teynte looked ready to protest, but then only muttered a curse to herself and relented. "Fine." Raising her head, she asked Malika, "Can you make enough for two?"

That got both of the older women reacting.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Milah exclaimed.

Malika, her concern now quite genuine, filled in, "Oh, little girl, that's a heavy decision at your age. Don't rush into something unless you have to."

"You said it yourself." Teynte's mouth settled in the hard lines. "The ordinary potions are too much of a hassle. No more bleedings, ever, sounds like a good plan."

"And what of babies?" Milah asked.

"That's not going to happen anyway, is it?"

"You don't know that. You don't know what you'd be willing to..." The word 'sacrifice' came to mind, but it seemed unfortunate, and she could think of no other.

"There's no shortage of children in the world," Teynte said. "Any poorhouse and whorehouse will have them. Or maybe someday I'll meet someone who already has children, that would be fine too."

"She's got a point," Malika said. Having finished with her hair, she poured some more oil on a sponge and unceremoniously dropped her dress to rub down her body.

"Be quiet," Milah snapped, beyond any care for politeness. "Teynte, you're so young, and you'd be giving up more than you know."

"Well, should the need become overpowering and there's absolutely no other resource, I suppose I could grow a child from a tulip or make one out of snow or whatever is customary in those cases." Teynte rolled her eyes in exasperation, and then grew serious again. "If it's giving up so much, I don't know why you want to do it. The Captain's a good man. Don't you want a family with him?"

"I already have a family with him," Milah said, hedging the question. Perhaps without that dreaded contract hanging over her head – but no. This way of life didn't mix with babies. She'd made her choice a long time ago; this was just confirming it.

"Well, in that case, so do I," Teynte retorted. "Not in the same way, of course. Gods, that would be awful."

Milah couldn't help but laugh, and she pulled Teynte into a hug, dropping the subject. She didn't know how to dissuade Teynte while still defending her own decision, and anyway, there was plenty of time to reconsider before they reached N'Zadaha.

Malika seemed to have reached the same conclusion. "All right, then," she said, tying her dress back up. "You get us there, buy the ingredients I tell you, I'll get the job done. And if you change your mind, I'm sure I can sell it elsewhere. Oh! I almost forgot."

Taking out a sewing kit, she headed over to the wall and nipped a wooden button off a wall decoration, sewing it back on at a different spot.

Milah had been too concerned with other things to pay the decoration any mind before, but now it struck her interest. It was a rather large swath of fabric, divided into squares, four down and eight across. Buttons of different sizes and colours were sewn into most of the squares, sometimes one or two, more often three, and a few squares empty. The pattern seemed haphazard, except on the left side. The squares in the second row down each had a silver button, and in the first row down, there were larger circles sewn in: one blue, one white, and two that were white-and-blue, mirror images of each other.

Moons. They were moons, and once she realized that, she saw that the shape of the whole thing formed a calendar. The empty squares had little holes and traces of thread on them. Buttons had been cut away and sewed back in many times.

"Are the buttons men?" she asked.

"That's right," Malika said, a tinge of surprise in her voice that Milah had figured it out. "Easier to keep track of them this way."

"And the silver buttons?" There was only one in each row, on the same day, but even without that pattern, they would have stood out. So much more well-polished and expensive than the others.

Malika smiled. "They're my private pastime," she said, "and private is private. Now, as for the things we'll need to buy in N'Zadaha..."


	13. Chapter 13

"Are we going to Wakanda?" Milah asked Killian as soon as they got enough time alone in his cabin for more than a quick round in the bedsheets. They were playing cards, and her lead was substantial enough that she hoped to keep him distracted from her true purpose.

"We hadn't planned to," he replied. "But right now we don't have a lot of plans, other than pluck off the ships we can and otherwise live off our savings until we're far enough north for regular plunder."

"Can we go to Wakanda, then? I've heard they have some marvellous things."

"They do, but you won't get to see them." He put a queen on hers, thus shifting to bells, of which she had few. The move narrowed the score, but that mattered little. "Their cities are off limits to travellers Proper walls, see, not a mild suggestion like fairy visions or poisonous plants."

He smiled at her, and she bared her teeth in return, laying down one of her low-value cards.

"But they have shore towns, don't they? Places of trade, like N'Zadaha?"

"They do." His eyebrow quirked up, as he placed another card on the table. "Who have you been talking to?"

Answering 'Malika' was obviously not an option, so she stuck to the half-truth: "Teynte."

"Hm." He prepared to lay the next card on the table, then halted. "Teynte wants to go to Wakanda?"

"Yes." Evidently that held some meaning she didn't grasp. "Why?"

"Just... she's never pushed for that before. Do you think it has to do with her father?"

"I wouldn't know," Milah said slowly. The connection hadn't occurred to her, and it seemed rude to imply that Teynte was on some kind of quest for her heritage, just to obscure the real issue. On the other hand, as diversions went, it was a good one. "Possibly."

"I doubt it will do her much good," Killian said, sounding concerned. "Then again, who am I to try to stop her? Wakanda it is." His face returned to its previous saucy good nature, and he placed down another high-value card, placing him ahead with a mere two points. "If nothing else, the walls themselves should provide some inspiration for your art. And you might enjoy the clothes."

"I'm looking forward to it," she said lightly, laying down her last cards and conceding his win.

Lying to Killian was so much easier than she would have imagined. Her only problem was what Teynte would think of being used as an excuse.

But either Killian was discreet enough not to mention his guesses, or Teynte thought nothing of it, because the subject never came up. As the days passed, Milah's guilt dissipated, buried under the concerns of the ever shrinking amount of potion in her bottle, and the miles left until they reached Wakanda, which shrank at a much lower rate.

They rarely saw anyone else on the water, just the occasional fishing boat, and so lived off their accumulated loot. Not that there was anything to waste money on - when they stepped ashore in Ujanka. Milah realized why Malika had laughed at the thought of buying supplies there. The harbour village had few merchants and no inn. Even half of the crew's regular supplies had to be bought from random farmers, including the food. They stayed only a couple of days, long enough to stretch their legs and restock the necessities. For once, Milah was more than ready to leave after those days. She'd made some nature sketches, just to pass the time, but was quite grateful that there was so little to see; even the wonders of Atlantis couldn't have entranced her now.

She took to throwing a glance towards the horizon whenever she passed by the gunwale - and perhaps she passed it by more often than strictly necessary. One afternoon, with still no land in sight, she spotted two giant grey shapes rising up from the waves. Too well-formed to be islands, and not like any ship she'd ever seen, they looked most of all like some kind of living creatures.

"Are they sea monsters?" she asked.

Bilal, standing close enough to hear, snorted. "You could say that. They're the Wakandan Lions. Don't worry, they're made of stone."

"Stone?" It was a daunting thought, how powerful a magic it would take to erect stones like that so far out to sea.

"Steel reinforced. A little warning of who we're dealing with." He grinned. "It's fine, we have no gripes with Wakanda. And they've got no gripes with us, either."

As they sailed past the lions, Milah could see that they were indeed made of stone, still perfectly sculpted despite the power of the waves, and she marvelled at their precision. At their current speed, she'd have no time to run down for her pencils, and so she stared as long as she could instead, determined to commit the statues to memory.

When gleaming metal shapes showed up in the water, she assumed that they were more statues, until she saw that they were moving and realized that they were boats – not big ones, but many. The swarm of boats soon had them surrounded, and she contemplated going down for her sword, but apart from a few of the newest crewmembers, no one else seemed concerned. On the contrary, when a wire rope ladder appeared at the side of the ship, two crewmembers fastened it, and Ryan climbed down, conversing with the Wakandan sailors about something that could not be heard from up above.

He returned with two of them in tow, and Killian stood ready to receive them, face beaming with that light charm he displayed whenever he had his desires set on something. Curious, Milah stepped up at his side and joined them as he showed them around the ship, making their business seem as above-board as possible.

Somehow she had expected Wakandans to look like Teynte, but for the first time she realized just how much of Teynte's Thulean heritage was evident in her looks. These men were much darker; the lighter of the two approached Malika's russet tones while the other was closer to a seal brown. Their faces were rounder, too, with wide-set cheekbones. One of them had a nose that slightly resembled Teynte's; both had dark eyes and full mouths like her, but that was all.

More surprising still was their uniforms: bulky, yet tight-fitting, and unlike anything Milah had ever seen before. The material had a shine that resembled silk yet seemed much more durable. She could not figure out if it came from the vegetable or animal world. The only recognizable part was the leather strap holding each man's sleek metal musket.

They inspected the ship as if they were buying a horse on the marketplace, and with much the same business-like approach. In the end, Killian must have convinced them that he was harmless, because they said their farewells and returned to their boats.

The _Jolly Roger_ was then guided through a narrow passage between smooth stone walls, until it emerged into the town itself.

She had believed N'Zadaha to be a village, much like the one they'd seen in Ujanka, or at the most a humble seaside town.

This... was not that.

Buildings towered up on each side, their slanted roofs made up of glass or some kind of metal, glistening in the sun. Many of them were rounded and domed, like buds springing out of the ground. The roads were paved with stone, and aqueducts led water down to the sea. High walls encircled the town, and beyond them, she could see fields of crops, and the sails of what appeared to be windmills.

This place, reputably a minor backwater as Wakandan towns went, was in its own stern way as magnificent as Atlantis.

She stumbled off the gangway not even thinking about the mission. Not until she was walking among the shop fronts down the road and saw a green sign with a mortar on it – an apothecary – did she remember her plans. She put her hand in her satchel to make sure the list of items was still there.

Rushing straight to the apothecary wasn't an option, and so she followed the rest of the crew to the nearest inn. She tried to find, or at least fake, enjoyment in their usual endeavours – the local cuisine, the honey mead served with it, and the gambling that she, for once, chose to sit out.

Having sopped up the last of her meat stew with the aid of flatbread, Milah walked over to Teynte and asked, in as carefree a tone as she could muster, "What do you say to a bit of shopping?"

"Absolutely," Teynte replied with much the same kind of innocence.

"Oh, can I come too?" Jukes asked.

The women exchanged glances.

"I was thinking more... feminine products," Milah said, hating that she had to turn him down, and the look of disappointment on his face.

"Tomorrow," Teynte told him. "Promise."

Bilal laughed. " _You're_ buying feminine products? That's a new one!"

"Shut up, I'm still a woman," she snapped back.

As they made their way outside, Killian, at the head of the table, caught their eyes and smiled.

"Good luck," he said softly.

"Thank you," Milah replied, with a smile in return that she hoped looked somewhat genuine.

Teynte said nothing to that until they were on the street, at which point she grabbed Milah's hand and asked:

"Does he know?"

"No," Milah assured her. "No, he..." But lying to Killian and Jukes was bad enough without coming up with yet another lie to tell Teynte. "He's under the impression that you mean to search for your father."

"My..." Teynte blinked, then scoffed. "Well, that's a fool's errand if there ever was one!"

It was phrased as a joke, but there was a brittle note to her voice.

"I'm so sorry," Milah said. "I didn't say you were, he just jumped to conclusions."

"No harm," Teynte said. She stopped by a tailor and started picking through the fabrics left out for show. "We'd better stay here for a moment, make it seem like we're not on any particular errand."

Milah stepped up beside her and looked at the fabrics as well. They were well worth looking at, in various colours and patterns, some recognizably wool or cotton, others made of that shiny thread the sailors had worn, and a few entirely new to her. She noticed to her surprise that many were knitted, not woven, but with such small loops she could not imagine the needles used, nor the skill it would take to accomplish something so regular.

"Are they made with magic?" she asked.

"Hardly anything here is," Teynte said. "They have machines like you wouldn't believe. That shiny stuff's called 'sunbeam', and they bake it like it's dough. Not sure from what ingredients, but the threads are thinner and stronger than you'd get from cotton or linen."

"And that's not magic?"

She shrugged. "Apparently not."

Milah was tempted to buy some of the fabric for later use, but she didn't know how much money they needed to spend at the apothecary, and figured it was best to be frugal for the time being.

As it turned out, even frugality wasn't enough.

The apothecary was a tall man, old but spry. His Avalonian was good enough that he needed no help picking out the items on their list and he went through it with a deep scowl, clearly aware of its purposes. When the potion bottles, bundles of herbs, and needle cases were lined up on his counter, he delivered the blow:

"Fifty-seven gold pieces."

Milah's mouth fell open. Fifty-seven would have been a tall order even during their busiest days, when they plucked Navy ships like ripe fruit. After months in slow waters, it was impossible.

Automatically, she launched into bargaining: "That's a ridiculous price," she said. "I could get many of these items much cheaper at the marketplace."

She used every trick she could, but to no avail. The price remained as it had been stated, not knocked down with even so much as a copper.

Pulling Teynte aside, they engaged in some heated whispers:

"I've got eleven gold and ten silvers," Milah said. Using up all of it meant she'd have to keep mending the skirt that got all torn up in the latest skirmish, rather than buying a new one, but that was an easy enough sacrifice to make.

"Eight and five," Teynte replied. "You're going to have to ask the Captain."

"I'm not telling Killian about this," Milah said firmly, but her resolve was crumbling. "What about Malika? She could help us out, couldn't she?"

"She's only been here over the winter. I doubt she's even got _five_ gold."

"Well, is there any of this we can do without?"

"You want to improvise the ingredients? Seriously?"

"I shouldn't tell you this," the apothecary said, making them both jump, "but you could indeed get some of the herbs cheaper at the marketplace. Not as fresh, but they might work. That could knock the price down to fifty gold pieces, if you're lucky. But quite frankly, you would be better off seeing a medic."

"And how much would that cost?" Milah asked.

His scowl deepened even further, and it was with great reluctance that he admitted: "Seventy, maybe eighty gold pieces. Each."

She had to laugh. "Well, that's not happening. Listen, you've been very helpful. Do you think you could hold these items for us? Until tomorrow, perhaps?"

Without replying, the apothecary took out a box and put everything in it, raising his eyebrows at them once he was done.

"Thank you," Milah said and dragged Teynte outside.

"I promised Jukes to bring him along tomorrow, remember?" Teynte whispered furiously. "And what's going to change until then, anyway? Maybe we should just buy half of it for now, get you the treatment at least. My potion can last me until Thule."

She sounded absolutely miserable saying that, and Milah couldn't stand the thought of being so selfish as to take Teynte's money all for herself.

Grabbing Teynte's arms, she asked, "Are you sure you want this? Really sure?"

"Yeah," Teynte said, eyes welling up. "I really am."

"Then I'll sort it out," Milah promised.

She wouldn't, _couldn't_ tell Killian. Betraying him in this way was hard enough without having to admit it to his face. If only she could be sure that Rumpelstiltskin had made the deal for himself alone – but this still would be a rotten place for a child to be born. At least she could take some small comfort in the fact that she wouldn't be cursing Killian's body along with her own.

No, telling him was out of the question, but there was at least one more person on the _Jolly Roger_ who had access to a whole lot of money, and who might be willing to do her a favour without asking too many questions.

* * *

"Twenty-six gold pieces!?" Starkey asked, and though he wasn't a man easily ruffled, the shock was evident in his voice.

"I know it's a tall order," Milah admitted, grateful at least that Malika had agreed to letting them have her four, so that it wasn't thirty.

"It's a third of the crew's salary for the latest trade," he pointed out. "What exactly are you buying that costs so much?"

"Personal things," she said, and then turned to the cover she'd used around Jukes: "Feminine products."

"The only feminine products I am usually asked to itemize cost less than four gold pieces and are picked up in Thule. Something on this scale, I'll have to clear with the Captain."

"No!" Her reply was whip-sharp, and only after the exclamation did she manage to calm herself down. "Isn't there any way you can... sidestep protocol?"

"Steal?" he asked.

The question was soft, none of the haughty judgement that had seemed so off-putting when she first got to know him, but it still made her squirm with shame.

"Forget it," she said. "I'll figure something out."

"Milah," he said, before she even had time to turn and flee. "Is this... an emergency?"

The glance he gave her waist made it clear what he was thinking, and she didn't want to lie to him, but after all, he wasn't so far off.

"I suppose you could say that."

"You really should tell the Captain."

She shook her head, unable to meet his pained expression, and her attention instead caught on his waistcoat – one of his finest, with embroidery and silver buttons. Something clicked in her head, and she looked up.

"Malika will help me," she said.

His surprise and the slight relaxation that followed told her that she'd made the correct guess. Still, the sceptical look remained, and she waited silently for a moment before he shook his head and gave a deep sigh.

"I've got fifteen saved," he said. "That leaves ten. I suppose I might get away with that much for 'feminine products'."

The shame she'd been feeling got stronger, urging her to tell him that she couldn't accept his savings, but pragmatism won out. "You'd give me that?"

"No. It's a loan. All twenty-five of it. I'm not setting any terms for repayment, but I will keep track of it."

"Absolutely," she agreed.

He nodded grimly. "Come on, then."

The _Jolly Roger_ was more than half empty, but it was still with a pounding heart that she followed Starkey, not least when he had given her the money from his own cabin and proceeded to Killian's for the ship's official till. Nobody approached them; Killian was ashore. She watched Starkey mark down the withdrawal in the book: _"F. products, 10g"_ , and wondered how often Killian read those notes and what he'd make of it.

"That's it, then," Starkey said, sanding the page before closing the book. "Good luck."

"Thank you." The smile she gave him was shaky enough that she had to turn and flee before it fell off completely.

Returning to her own cabin, she found Teynte waiting, legs drumming against the edge of the bunk.

"Didn't work?" Teynte asked anxiously at the sight of her.

" _Did_ work," Milah confirmed. "We're all set."

Teynte exhaled, and started laughing. "Oh, Gods, I thought... but that's all right, then. Whew! Malika and I will take the marketplace tonight, you go back to the apothecary tomorrow while I take Jukes shopping like I promised, and then we meet back in Malika's cabin. Would that work?"

"I hope so," Milah said, and then because Teynte needed the reassurance as much as she did, "Yes. It'll be just as we want it."

Teynte grinned, eyes glittering with excitement, and Milah was suddenly filled with tenderness for her, this adolescent girl who had decided to eschew motherhood with her, and who ironically was the closest to a daughter that she'd ever get. She pulled Teynte closer, tickled her side, and kissed her on the top of her head.

"All right, all right," Teynte said, squirming in her arms. "Don't get sappy with me."

"Can't help it," Milah said, but she let go, feeling as light and free as the day she first ran away.

* * *

With the money issue settled, the second visit to the apothecary was no major inconvenience, though Milah eyed with suspicion the large needle attached to a metal tube.

"What is that?"

"A pyoulkos," said the apothecary and scowled at her. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"My friend does," she said, packing up all of her purchases.

That wasn't strictly true, of course. The person at home with all this was Malika, who wasn't a friend by any stretch of the imagination, but Milah had to admit that when it came to this, she trusted the other woman. Maybe even more now, knowing what she did about Starkey and her.

They met in the cabin around dinnertime, when the ship was more or less empty – and as Malika laconically put it, they weren't going to want anything to eat.

"No point in eating anything beforehand, either," she said, mixing up her potions.

The first potion was sweet-smelling and seemed rather benign, but having finished with that one, Malika proceeded with another that ended up fizzing alarmingly – and that one she sucked up into the pyoulkos.

"Care to go first, pirate queen?" she asked Milah.

"I suppose I shall," Milah said, raising her chin as she stepped up to stand on the rags Malika had put out on the floor.

"Take off your skirt. You wouldn't want to soil it."

Milah did as she was told, and waited, not protesting even when Malika bound her hands with a length of rope made of that strong Wakandan fabric called sunbeam.

"So you won't fight me."

Milah was starting to suspect that these ominous preparations were just Malika's way of frightening her. The pyoulkos being inserted into her lower belly stung a little, but not too badly. When Malika turned the handle, liquid was pushed down the tube and needle, burning like salt in a wound as it hit the skin. Milah hissed, but braced herself. This she could handle.

Then her body reacted against the potion, and she doubled over as something inside her clenched and pushed, searing through her tight abdomen like a red-hot knife in a closed fist. A scream tried to work its way through her throat, and she had to bite her teeth down hard not to let it out. Then bile rose behind it, and she coughed, trying not to throw up.

"Stand up," a voice said in her ear. "I need to do the other side."

With the help of her tied hands, she straightened somewhat against the bedframe, but feeling the cold metal against her skin she still instinctively jerked away, ready to fight it off. Calm hands forced her back into position and pushed the needle in once again.

If the bed hadn't been right under her hands, she would have fallen. Her knees shook, and stuck together in a mess of blood gushing from between the legs. Malika untied her hands and gave her the second potion.

"There you go," she said, with more sympathy than she'd ever shown before. "Drink this."

Behind them on the bed, Teynte uttered a long Thulean word that could only be a curse.

Milah drank the potion, which tasted a bit like yoghurt, and managed to keep it down. If it had some effect on her body, she couldn't feel it.

"Are you still sure you want this?" Malika asked Teynte.

That had been the point of taking them in this order, Milah realized. To scare off Teynte, if there was any doubt left in her heart.

"You'll be all right, though," Teynte said, addressing Milah. "Won't you?"

Milah's eyes met Malika's. She could play up her pain, of course, make it seem like the worst thing she'd ever felt. But that didn't seem fair. Teynte had another thirty or forty years of bleedings or regular potions, and would likely have nought to show for it in the end.

"Of course I will."

"Then go ahead," Teynte said firmly.

Watching it done to someone else was almost as bad as being subjected to it in the first place. When the second injection was made, Milah looked away and started wiping herself down with shaky hands. The blood and mess between her legs was easy enough to get rid of, but swollen marks remained where the needles had been inserted, and her belly felt bloated and tender. Still, the edge of the pain was gone, and it was altogether preferable to childbirth.

"What's in this?" Teynte mumbled with a hoarse voice when she was given the potion to drink.

"It tells your body that you're still a young woman," Malika said, kneeling down to gently wipe off Teynte herself. "You don't have the womb of one, anymore, and we don't want you to shrivel up into an old crone before your time."

Milah paused in cleaning herself up. The thought of what would happen to her body afterwards had never occurred to her. Now she thought of women back home, after as much as ten childbirths, worn out and aged beyond their years.

"And this will work?" she asked.

"Done right, I've never seen it fail," Malika assured her. "And we did it right. That's all your seed, right there on the floor. Trust me."

"I do," Milah said. There would never be another child that someone could take away from her. "Thank you so much."

"You're a life saver," Teynte said. Then her face tightened and she swayed, having to steady herself against the doorpost. "Could you put a rag down on the bed? I don't want to repay you by bleeding all over it, but I _need_ to sit down."


	14. Chapter 14

Milah, too, felt the need to crawl into bed. Once she was a little steadier on her feet, she left the other two and went to Killian's cabin, which was more comfortable than her own. The bleeding had stopped, but the ache and dizziness remained, and after some shuffling to find a good position, she fell asleep.

She woke from a weight on the bedside and a hand stroking her face, and smiled even before opening her eyes to see Killian's face.

"You were neither at dinner nor supper," he said. "Are you unwell?"

"Just a bit off today," she said, stretching her sleep-heavy muscles. In truth, she was feeling a lot better – enough that hunger was making itself known. "What hour is it?"

"Almost eight," he said.

"I probably should get something to eat, then," she said, sitting up. The room swam before her eyes, and she steadied herself with one hand, swatting away Killian's concerning arm with the other. "I'm _fine_ , I just sat up too quickly."

"If you say so." Killian sounded dubious, and still hovered over her, until he suddenly stilled. "What's that?"

She followed his gaze across her shoulder, and saw a half-dried bloodstain on the bedsheet. "Damn. It's nothing, just... just my monthlies."

"Oh." He relaxed a little. "I thought you had some method of avoiding those?"

His concern was so touching that she had to kiss him, which also had the double advantage of calming him down and giving her time to think.

"I just had a little mishap," she said, deliberately downplaying it the way she would if it had indeed been her regular bleedings. "Sorry about the bedsheet."

Slowly, his shoulders sank, and he smiled at her. "It'll wash. I take it you haven't seen much of Wakanda, then, either?"

"I've seen some. Even brought some of it with me." The sunbeam rope she'd been tied up with was still in her pocket, and she fished it out, dangling it in front of Killian.

"What's that for?"

"For us," she said, winking at him to make her meaning clear. "Tomorrow, let's say."

His smile widened, and he wrapped the rope loosely around his wrist, to try out the sensation. "I'm looking forward to it."

As it turned out, though, Milah was still somewhat sore in the morning, and Killian only too understanding as she asked to postpone the pleasure another day. Instead, she followed him into the city to meetings with merchants, and to the few landmarks accessible to strangers.

Most of the local business was done indoors, but there were the occasional street vendors, including a couple of artists. Killian thought nothing of it when she asked to remain outside to draw while he had yet another meeting – after all, not all negotiations were done in languages she could understand, and her contributions were therefore limited.

"You know where to get me if you need me," she said.

"I'd better," he warned. "Don't go off anywhere."

"I won't."

Nor did she have to. The building was at a busy street, which was wide enough that she could sit down in a shady spot with her drawings without being in anybody's way. She picked a few of her finer landscapes and spread them out on the ground, weighted down with pebbles.

As she was drawing the houses across the street, a man stopped by and asked her a question in Wakandan. She recognised the word "fedha", currency, and held up one finger in reply. The price was set at random, but seemed to be acceptable; next he gestured at his face and gave her a questioning look, to which she nodded enthusiastically.

Even without payment, he would have been a joy to draw: the deep set eyes and the way the shadows played over his face, not to mention the hair and the strange gleam of his sunbeam clothes, only the collar of which would be visible on the page. With a commission like this she couldn't take too long, but rushing would skew the result, and so she worked at a steady pace and with utmost concentration, ending up with a portrait she could hand over to both their satisfaction, collecting the silver coin.

A little while later a woman stopped, and after that, an actual queue began forming, giving her work for hours, until the sun had almost reached her spot and she had to stand up to get back in the shade and rub out the knot forming in her shoulder.

That was when she saw Killian, lounging by the door to the merchant he had visited.

"How long have you been standing there?" she asked.

"Not that long," he said, coming up to her. "When I saw how long the queue was, I went off to buy nuts." He tossed her the bag. "Going into a new profession, are you?"

"Just a little extra on the side." Her pocket was heavy with more than a dozen silver pieces, which meant paying off Starkey at least a small percent of her debt, but that wasn't the only reason she was feeling triumphant.

When it came to piracy, she was still a novice. She could be helpful to Killian in the negotiations, and to Starkey with arithmetic, but both of those were things they could manage alone in a pinch. This was her one skill that _no one_ on board could manage as well as she could, and she had just made the equivalent of a full gold piece in a couple of hours.

"Please tell me if you decide to jump ship and stay here as an artist."

She laughed. "Not going to happen."

* * *

Milah's good mood remained, and when she next encountered Teynte they exchanged a secret smile that suggested that they both shared the same giddy relief.

The next night, she took Killian to bed feeling all healed up and more carefree than she'd ever been. She tied his hands together with the sunbeam rope and gave each wrist a lick, feeling the way his pulse sped up under her tongue. Though he'd removed his shoes and outer garments, his shirt and trousers were still on, and she took her time unbuttoning them. When she inched the trousers off, he was hard underneath, and she was somewhat quicker in removing her own clothes, not wanting him to be spent before she even straddled him.

Having him tied up like this, hands resting above his head, meant that he couldn't touch her the way he usually did, but it also gave her a sense of power that she had to admit was rather exhilarating; especially seeing the blissful expression on his face as he lay back – all tension released– and gave her full access.

Somehow, halfway through, the tension returned and she couldn't tell why, not until they were finished and she reached up to untie him, at which point his hands came down by her side, fingers grazing against her waist.

"What are those?"

The marks, she realised, from the ritual. They had scabbed over by now, but were still visible, and would probably scar, much like a pock mark.

"Nothing," she said. "Insect bites, I guess."

"Those aren't insect bites." He sat up, frowning deeply. "I've seen marks like that before, but only ever on prostitutes. What are they?"

"When were you with prostitutes?"

"Before we met. Don't change the subject."

"It's nothing." But she wasn't nearly a good enough liar to stick to the insect bite story in the face of evidence to the contrary. "It's a... women's thing. A sort of ritual."

"A ritual? What kind of a ritual would you be doing _here_?"

"It was just between us women on board."

"Us women? You and Teynte? Or _Malika_? You don't even like her!" Another thought struck him. "Was this why you were bleeding the other day?"

She averted her eyes, searching her mind for a reply, and he gripped both of her arms.

"Milah, did you... were you pregnant?"

"No," she said, because that much was true, and she looked into his eyes, infusing her voice with as much sincerity as she could. "I wasn't. I promise."

His shoulders sank somewhat and his grip turned into a caress. "Because if you were, we could arrange something. I mean, in a better way. You wouldn't have to... do anything drastic."

This was a disaster, and she couldn't stand lying to him anymore, not with those loyal, expressive eyes gazing into hers.

"I'll never be pregnant again," she said. "I've made myself barren."

For a second, his expression was blank, and then he reeled back as if she'd struck him in the face. "You did _what_?"

"I've made myself barren. That's what the rite was for."

"But... why?"

"I'm a pirate," she said, because it was easier to start there than to delve into her past. "I can't have a baby on board the ship. It's no place for a child – we agreed on that from the start." Her voice was harder perhaps than it needed to be, what with his still in half-whispered bewilderment.

"Is that what this is? Are you punishing me?"

"No, no, of course not!" She tried to reach for his face, but he slapped her hands away. "It's got nothing to do with you, it's..."

"Nothing to _do_ with me?" That did make his voice rise, and he stepped out of the bed, leaving three feet of bare floor between him and Milah. "To do something like this, and you didn't even _ask_..."

"It's just, with our lives being what it is, and my husband signed this..."

"I am so tired of hearing of your husband!" Killian snapped. "I have bent over backwards trying to accommodate you, and everything comes back to what rotten lovers you've had before. None of that is my fault, why do you insist on dragging me down with you?"

Milah swallowed. She knew she deserved some of the rebuke – she'd _been_ there, of course she knew – but she was pretty sure she didn't deserve _that_. "You can still have all the children you want," she said, because she might be grasping at straws, but that particular straw was an important one. "They just can't be mine."

The second of silence was enough to tell her what a misstep those words had been. Then something flashed in Killian's eyes, and he stepped forward, grabbing her clothes from the bench.

"Get out," he said, tossing them towards her.

Automatically, she caught them. "I..."

"Get _out_ ," he repeated fiercely, and there wasn't much else to do.

She dressed quickly, anger and shame making her face heat. On her way out of his cabin, bare-legged and tying her belt, anger won out. How dare he kick her out of his room as if she were some passing acquaintance on Midsummer's Day? The night crew's sidewards glances scraped against her conscience, and reminded her far too much of home.

By the time she reached her own cabin, she had a splinter in her foot and sat down with a needle to pick it out. After a few missed attempts, she put the needle down and lit a lantern, pushing the curtain aside for the light to hit her foot.

The men remained asleep, but Teynte stirred above.

"Milah?"

"Go back to sleep," Milah said.

There was a shuffling, and then Teynte's head appeared over the edge of the bunk. "Are you alright?"

Milah kept picking at the splinter, and managed to get half of it out. "I told Killian."

Teynte gave a harsh, singular "tsk", and climbed down.

"Didn't take it too well?" she asked, settling down next to Milah on the lower bunk.

"You could say that."

Teynte didn't say anything to that, just watched in silence as Milah finished her task and got the last smidgeon of offending wood out of her sole.

"He knows you and Malika were there as well," Milah admitted eventually.

A long sigh escaped Teynte's lips. "You're not very good at keeping secrets, are you?"

"Sorry."

"Are you?" Teynte asked. "I mean, sorry you did it?"

In the shade thrown by the lantern's light, Teynte's expression was hard to read, but either way, there could only be one answer to that question.

"No. Not in the slightest. I'm just sorry I dragged you into it."

"Well, I'm not sorry I did it either," Teynte said. "And I don't mind if the Captain knows. But you should probably let him cool off for a while before you try to talk to him again."

Milah put the needle away in lieu of answering, and then blew out the lantern. She knew that she would have to talk to Killian eventually, but she didn't have the faintest notion of what to say. Despite it all, she couldn't regret her actions – only the way she had blindsided him.

"I'm going to sleep," she said. "You should too."

Teynte laughed a little, but did hoist herself up on the top bunk. "Sure."

* * *

Early the next morning, Jukes arrived with her boots, leaving them on the floor with an apologetic shrug.

"Captain's real upset," he confessed and gave Milah a pleading look.

Milah laced up her boots without responding. The night's fretful sleep had done nothing to help her think of anything to say to Killian – at least anything that wouldn't lead to another argument. There were plenty of harsh words waiting to get out, about refusing to be put back on land for anyone, about how her past could not magically disappear for his convenience, but no consolation would come to her tongue, and so she bit down and went ashore to do some more drawings.

Starkey looked awfully guilty when she returned to ship and handed him the first off-payment. Malika, who was with him, looked about ready to start laughing. Milah ignored them both and took to work.

She couldn't avoid Killian all day, of course. They met during dinner, and his brooding eyes searched hers. What they looked for, she couldn't tell, but she scowled, and he turned away.

The meal was unusually silent that day, not even Cecco up to his usual light-hearted conversation.

The next day, as Milah and Killian were still not speaking, Mason took her aside.

"This is no way to handle a lovers' spat," he reproached her.

"I'm sure you're quite the expert," she cut back, "seeing your wife all of three times a year!"

"Ooh, the tongue on her!" He grinned and nodded towards the stairs. "Take it to him. Do more good than this sulking."

"No, it wouldn't," she said, bitterly tired of the whole thing. "I spent six years fighting. It did no bloody good whatsoever."

"It's easier if someone fights back," Mason said.

Maybe he had a point, but she didn't want to try. At least she no longer had to worry about being thrown off the ship. She carried out her duties and drew portraits when she had the time, collecting up the silver pieces to pay off her debt.

Before the customary week was up, she was hauled up from her position on the street corner by Foggerty of all people.

"Come on, everyone's to gather on ship!" he said, pulling her along.

"Why?" she asked.

"Avalonian Navy. Three ships, waiting to dock – and before they do, we'd better slip out."

"Blast!" She started to run. "Can we?"

"We've done it before."

Maybe they had, but the time it took before everyone was back on board was still enough to get Milah on edge. Her immediate reaction had been to keep her sword drawn, but the others had gently steered her towards the sails, all hands needed to get the ship ready.

They made it out of harbour, and Milah had just started to breathe more easily again when Cooper bellowed from lookout, "They're turning around – they've spotted us!"

The boom of a cannon accentuated his words, and the crew hurried to man their own cannons. Milah was still on sail duty, and so only saw from afar when another cannon shot took bits of the railing with it.

At long last, Cooper called: "Two of them are falling behind – but the third's quick, it's gaining on us!"

"Put in everything you've got!" Killian ordered.

Yet the third ship hung in there, refusing to sink, and rather than trying to flee, the _Jolly Roger_ now moved in closer.

"Take them quickly and get out of here!" Killian shouted.

Once again, Milah drew her sword, and when the first Navy men came on board, she was ready. The cannons were still booming underneath, but there was no time to worry about that. She fought with all she had, barely giving one man time to fall before she moved in towards another.

It was quick. It was also the bloodiest battle she'd seen so far. Of the Navy men that had boarded the ship, most were slaughtered within minutes. The survivors, rather than being rounded up as usual, were thrown into the ocean to climb back onto their own slowly sinking ship, or cling to whatever they could until their colleagues came along.

The _Jolly Roger_ , wounded, but taking every bit of advantage of the wind and the current, managed to get away, deck covered in blood and corpses – not all of them Navy.

Near the stern, Milah spotted Killian, bloody and panting, and her heart raced, until she realized that his back was too straight and his colour too rosy for all that blood to be his.

Mullins and Soeng took care of the wounded, but everything else got left where it was while the crew struggled to get away. Not until the enemy ship was out of sight did they gather to get rid of the bodies and clean up the deck.

"Could we have done anything differently?" Milah asked as she scrubbed the planks, looking out at the destruction.

"They attacked us," Mason pointed out beside her.

"Yes, but we're pirates."

"Yuh, that we are." He sat up and rested his hands on his knees. "You know what you _can_ do differently?"

"Mind your own business," she said, but she knew he was right.

If only talking things out were as easy as running your sword through things.

* * *

"Can we talk?" she asked Killian, stepping into his cabin.

He was in a state of undress, washing the blood off, and she could tell that he _was_ wounded after all, though not deeply enough to require stitches.

The initial surprise in his face gave way for a jaded sadness.

"I suppose there's nothing like near death to get me in your good graces."

She bit down on the first thing that came to mind, and instead said, "I don't want to lose you."

"Well, I don't want to lose you either," he said, putting the towel down, "but I'll be damned if I know what you want. It clearly isn't a family."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she said. She wanted so much to take him in her arms, but his stance was tense, warding her off. "I was scared. My husband... he signed away our second-born to a warlock, and I can't remember if he said he'd sold _his_ future child, or _ours_."

Killian paled. "Is that what you were afraid of? That the warlock might still find you, even here?"

"Partly," she admitted, but if she was going to be honest, she damned well had to be honest. "But either way... after what I did to Bae, it wouldn't feel right to have another child. Besides, I couldn't have them on board, anyway, and I can't settle down somewhere, only seeing you when you deign to sail by. I can't live like that. I don't have it in me."

"Not even if they were my children?"

The notion that mere paternity had made her love Bae any less than she would other children was atrocious, but she only shook her head.

"I don't even care about the children," he said, and then halted himself. "That's... that's not quite true. But you didn't even _talk_ to me." He looked up at her, and anger would have been easier to take than the pain in his eyes.

"I didn't want you to stop me. Talk me out of it."

"I wouldn't have forced you to do anything you didn't want to do," he said fervently. "But I feel like we're always running things the way you want them to be run."

"I'm on _your_ ship, last I looked," she pointed out.

"A ship you clearly love more than me!"

"That's not fair," she warned, her blood starting to boil against her wishes. "I've got friends here. I've got a right to want to stay with them. And I also want to stay with _you_."

"Do you?" he cut back. "You don't think I should just go have children with some other woman?"

"I didn't mean that," she said.

"I love you," he said, and it sounded more like an accusation than anything else. "I want to be with you forever, and if that means no children... then I can live with that. But I don't know if you even see a future for us."

She shook her head slowly. "Killian, don't do this."

"So you don't." Though he tried to sound cold, his voice was trembling.

"I promised two men forever," she said. "I meant it both times. It still went to shit both times. I can't make any promises about the future. All I can promise is that _now_ , I love you. Now, I can't stand the thought of being without you, and I want to spend every day for the rest of my life with you – as far as I know. I'm sorry if that's not enough."

His shoulders drooped and she stepped forward, putting her arms around him. Rather than pushing her off, as she'd half expected, he returned the embrace.

"Of course you're enough," he murmured. "Of course you are." But a sob shook his body, and she held him closer.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," she said, and this much was true, this she could apologise for. "And you're right, it was horrid of me not to talk to you first. I had no idea it meant so much to you."

"I didn't either," he admitted, and then he cried, in long, shaking sobs, while she held him and kissed his forehead, his face, his neck.

After a while, her hand around his waist started getting slick, and when she realized why she stepped back. "Your wound's opening up," she said, grabbing the towel.

He held the towel against the wound until he'd found a roll of bandage, and then they helped each other set the bandage in place.

"Will you marry me?" he asked, catching her hand after she'd finished the knot.

"I'm already married," she pointed out.

"There are countries where that wouldn't matter."

She hadn't thought of that, and now paused to consider it. Marrying Killian would, in one sense, be the most natural thing in the world. But marrying Killian while still being married to Rumpelstiltskin felt like a travesty, no matter what the law would have to say about it.

"I don't want you to be my second husband," she said. "You mean more to me than that. You're my Pirate King." She caressed his face, and then had to wipe it off, having left a streak of blood.

"And you're my blood-hound in a red dress," he said tenderly.

"I'm not wearing the red..." She looked down and saw the state of her clothing. "Well. I suppose it might as well be."

He laughed, and she squeezed his hand.

"Maybe, though," she said. "If we can't think of anything better to call it than marriage."

"Fair enough," he said, kissing her hand. "I'll try to think of something better."

* * *

The subject of marriage wasn't brought up for some time after that. Sometimes during their intimate moments, Killian's hands would rest on the scars on Milah's belly, and she learned to avoid his gaze when they did, unable to face the melancholy within. Still, it was always only for a moment, and for the most part, their relationship had mended. Deepened, perhaps.

The journey back north meant passing by many of the same places they'd been before, yet there was nothing routine about it. On the contrary, going ashore in Basileia held twice the excitement now, that she knew something of what to expect.

This time, Killian took her to the water cistern, an underground palace with sculpted pillars and dark water running below.

"Is it a temple?" she asked.

"Only for heathens like you," he teased.

She walked around on the narrow gangways, watching the way the affixed lanterns threw shadows up into the ceiling. The water itself was only dimly lit, but pure enough that she could see all the way to the bottom, four or five fathoms down.

Something looked back at her. A female face, inhumanly large and upside-down, with a sinister appearance made all the more unsettling by the dark waves moving in front of it. Milah gasped.

"Relax," Killian said in her ear. "It can't hurt you. The real one died over a hundred years ago."

"Real one?" she asked, looking down at the face, which seemed to be made of stone.

"The gorgon that lived here. This is a statue. Although, watch this!"

He took a coin from his purse and tossed it into the water. The face opened its marble eyes, and then its mouth, letting out a long marble tongue to swallow the coin. Afterwards, the mouth remained open, white marble teeth glimmering in the water.

"Now you can ask it a question," Killian said. "It's a fortune-teller."

"Does it work?" she asked, and he shrugged, smiling.

Trying to think of something to ask, Milah looked around the cistern. There were more people walking about, both locals and foreigners. Two women and a man was studying one of the columns, some distance away. They looked very comfortable with each other, probably family. Possibly married – was Atlantis one of those countries where people could have more than one spouse? She hadn't thought to ask.

"Will we always love each other?" she asked, looking down at the fortune-teller.

"Uh, Milah..." Killian started, but the statue had already started moving its lips in reply.

Slowly, muffled by the water, it said, "For the rest of your life."

The giant stone mouth closed, as did the eyes. The fortune had been told.

"There," Milah said with a sigh of relief. "Can't have it any clearer than that, can you?"

She smiled at Killian, who returned her smile, with some hesitation.

"What would you have done if it said no?" he asked.

"Don't know. Enjoyed it while I could, I suppose. But now we don't have to worry about that."

He shook his head slowly, but there was a sparkle in his eyes as he pulled her closer.

"It's just a parlour trick," he said. "You don't know that the oracle will hold true."

"I know," she said. "Believe me, I know all about the unreliability of oracles. I just choose to believe this one."

Exhilaration bubbled up inside her, and she grabbed his collar with both hands, kissing him deeply. He returned the kiss, arms going around her waist.

Only the fact that they were on a _very_ narrow ledge, surrounded by strangers, stopped them from taking it further right then and there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter and a bit more quite some time ago, but then drifted away from the story. This is likely to be the final chapter, and if so, I hope you won't find too many loose ends. There were bits I meant to write that I never did, but I guess that's true with a lot of WIPs. Thanks for staying with Milah's tale for this long!


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